Ah, how nice to be home. I open the paper to find this story: Mother caught street racing.
This happened on Victroria Road, which is a bit of tarmac I find myself on quite often. I was surprised by a number of factors in this story.
The first is that it happened in Victoria Road rather than around here. Victoria Rd is the nice end of this suburb, whilst we are at the sink hole end. I think the bath plug is just around the corner. Certainly the grease trap is. I went out for milk at 10pm last night and the street was full of wanna-be street racers. In the UK, most of them would be known as chavs. I prefer to call them bogans, but they're not really. Bogans used to drive panel vans and wear tight black jeans and desert shoes and flannel shirts. These are wog bogans, who drive tarted up rice burners, have strange hair cuts and wear more bling than a Vegas pimp. Are they wogans?
But back to the street racer. How on earth did she get up to 100 kmh on Victoria Road? It's got more lumpy hills on it than the seven hills of Rome, the road surface is more pock marked that Route Irish going into Baghdad, and the density of traffic rarely allows you to get out of second gear.
I can only presume she was driving on the footpath.
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