FLASHERS
At the risk of sounding like a hater, I HATE flashers. I don’t mean folks who like to show you their bits. Unless you’re talking about Rihanna. If I ever see any of Rihanna’s bits, ever again, I will pluck out my own eyeballs. I mean motorists who think it’s the done thing to flash you with their headlights for no discernible reason. Take the other day. There I am, driving along the country road into my village, when a motorist flashes me. I check the speedometer. The instrument panel. The mirrors. Nothing. A second motorist flashes me, then a third, this time with eye-melting LED headlights that emit more light than a nuclear explosion. In a state of high anxiety, overwhelmed by the mind-altering pain of the retinal burn, I consider the following possibilities: a) There is a corpse on my car roof. b) The radiator grille is spewing out Plague. c) The flesh-eating flying demon from Jeepers Creepers is preparing to swoop down on my car...