The Selfish Driver

This morning I encountered a really selfish driver.

At least, that's what I decided he was.

I needed to turn right. He'd stopped miles back from the zebra crossing — as my dad would have said, you could have fitted a double-decker bus through there. Another couple of feet and I could have made my turn.

But he didn't move.

Annoyed, I turned to my girls.

"When you learn to drive, you'll realise there are some really selfish people on the road."

And almost as soon as the words had left my mouth, the world started proving me wrong.

Someone let me out of the next road.

Then somebody else gave way.

Then, heading up the steep hill to the grandparent's house, an enormous articulated lorry — exactly the sort of vehicle you'd expect to own the road — stopped and waved me through.

And then a tiny little car did the same.

Four strangers, one after another.

My sweeping statement had survived approximately thirty seconds.

I'd been niggly all morning. Perhaps the world hadn't been particularly selfish at all.

Perhaps I'd just caught myself looking for evidence that it was.

And, rather wonderfully, the world gave me some evidence of its own.