The journey is punctuated with roadkill. They flash past in a blur of fur and lurid crimson, staining the tarmac, unwitting victims of a river of projectiles which cannot be stemmed day or night. Soft flesh and brittle bone is no match for implacable metal and velocity, and there is only ever going to be one winner. But the gods must be appeased and the birds must eat too.
I wince as I drive past a dead rabbit, now picked at by a murder of crows, and silently pray that it didn’t suffer, as if violent death wasn’t suffering enough. I spot the lonely magpies perched on the metal barriers or hopping along the hard shoulder, and chuckle at the memory of her greeting them. It is strange that someone so scathing of those given to superstition should adhere to this particular one. But she has experienced sorrow too. “Hello, Mr Magpie, how’s your lovely wife?”, acknowledging there is another, one for sorrow, two for joy.
As a boy who spent his formative years in a Catholic country, I lugged around a bagful of superstitions, discarded one by one and replaced by cold, analytical British cynicism as the years wore on, like clothes that no longer fit or became unfashionable. Chief perpetrator was my father: you mustn’t eat meat on a Good Friday; you mustn’t whistle at night; you mustn’t bring a peacock feather into the house; if you drop salt, you should throw some over your shoulder; you mustn’t mix watermelon and wine, or mangos and milk. The list is as long as it is preposterous.
My journey is spent spotting roadkill and lonely magpies, and there are plenty of both today. On my way home, late at night, I rush up the M1 thinking only of arriving home, and just before I reach junction 36, at the brow of the hill and tucked behind a bend, something goes pop and in less than a second I am heading for the central reservation, my brain in a tumble drier, the world upside down, sliding along the road. So this is how it ends, no life flashing before my eyes, no moment of clarity or regret. Ridiculously, I scream. Why? Anticipation, perhaps. I wait for a blow that never comes, the van slides on its side and comes to a stop of its own accord, facing the oncoming traffic.
That was just over two and a half years ago, and to my dismay I now find myself mentally greeting the lonely magpies.
It’s funny how life doesn’t REALLY flash before your eyes when you feel you’re about to die. I remember when I nearly drowned in Costa Rica…and all I could think about as the rip tide pulled me further and further out to sea was “My mother is going to be SO PISSED!”
Never been there so we can’t comment, but we’re glad you survived to recall it!
Glad you’re still with us to entertain us with your road trips.
On the subject of superstitions, most countries, religions, races… have their own taylor-made to sow seeds of doubt in the minds of those who do adhere to them.
I once killed a black cat. In my country, black cats crossing your path are unlucky, but here it is the opposite.
I’m so happy I killed it just up the road from you… Well, sad really but you know what I mean… Don’t you?
Don’t mix watermelon and wine – why? Never heard of that one. I was always told never to whistle in a newsroom as that was considered unlucky. Don’t know why. Anyway, glad you survived the magpie and the accident otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to read your blog. And I guess you’d be a bit pissed off too.
Just over a year ago we had a blow out on the M1 which resulted in us spinning across all three carriageways.
My life flashed before my eyes and I never take it for granted that I am still here to tell the story.
We are lucky people indeed.
Mango and milk? Does this mean that mango lassi isn’t allowed? Nooooooooo …!
The Mista had urine poured in his ear to cure a malady of some sort. This was the cure forced on him by his Latina grandmother. His modern-minded Latina mother was aghast.
enidd imagines you’d had a nice glass of watermelon & red wine before you drove, edvard, and this was the universe taking its revenge. (she’s trying to be less cynical and british now.)
whoooa, yes, very glad you’re here to tell the tale…
It’s the crows man. The crows did it.
Crows are bad.
I had a nasty spin-off-the-road driving experience like that and I screamed too. And mine was two and a half years ago – moorland road; black ice – and I still haven’t got 100% of my driving confidence back. (Or my passengering confidence, either, much to Top Bloke’s annoyance.)
Dude, waste not, want not. Roadkill is free food, innit?!
I have witnessed a few spins but, thankfully, have only ever experienced a few small knocks. We should never take our safety for granted, sometimes though, it’s all too easy to take life for granted.
Bloody ell that sounds a bit too logically formal for me. Just take care!
Well, I’m glad you weren’t roadkill, and I always say hello to Magpies too….
hello everyone. I shall reply to all comments tomorrow evening, just not had time at all this week, and missed reading your blogs too.
I read this a while back, Edvard – and loved it. What happens is – my brain mechanism, the one that handles comments, ceases to function when I really like something and I sneak away without commenting because I don’t want to say something really dull or stupid and spoil how good it’s been to read it.
Perhaps I should start leaving stones.