Summary
BY the colour of his face, the man in the red Astra had already gone through the full spectrum of outrage and indignation and had now reached the point of spluttering apoplexy. As he drew up at the roundabout, he kept one hand on the horn while waving the other in a manic circular action. Call it intuition, call it sixth sense - something told me he wanted me to wind down my window.
"Your right indicator is on!" bellowed Mr Angry. "It's been on for the last two miles!" As it happened, I had only been travelling that stretch of road for about half a mile, but I had figured out that the poor fellow was far past the point where level-headed discussion was an option. Besides which, he looked like he might be armed.See the full content of this document
Extract
There's No Party with This Fiesta
"Eh, thanks mate," I muttered. "Sorry." Had the blood vessels in his temples been throbbing less violently, I might have explained that the indicator click was particularly quiet in this car. I might have gone on to say that all the other beeps...
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