Reasons to Kill

In some ways, I’m pretty sure I’m actually getting less tolerant of things over the years.  I know that’s a bit of a challenge in comparison to how I used to be when I was living in Manchester (and ranting about train journeys every damn weekend) but I’m noticing it more and more.

In particular, when I’m at home, there are a couple of things that mean it’s probably a good thing I don’t have access to a baseball bat.

The first one is done by a few people, but drives me bananas. People pull up in their cars outside my house (which is on a main road through the village, but has parking spaces right outside) and sit there with the engines running. I don’t quite know why it drives me as barmy as it does, although I do know it’s the noise of the engine that does it. Yesterday it was a British Gas van that sat outside for a good hour, engine running, and audibly trying to use his hands-free phone. (You know it’s too fucking loud when you can hear that from not just outside the car, but inside the house!)  If I’d had a baseball bat, I’d have gone outside and tapped on his bloody windscreen with it. Dickhead.

The other one is more specialised, although still related. When I’m at home in the mornings (not an altogether common occurrence, but all the same) it gets busy with the school run – the local school isn’t far away, and the car-park opposite my house is the nearest place for all the parents. Every day, every damn day, one particular parent pulls up in their 4×4 that’s never been off-road in its life. They take their spawn out to go to school, turn on the alarm on the car, and fuck off.

And every damn day, the alarm goes off, and keeps going off. There’s obviously something wrong with it, and the owner doesn’t give a shit.

Again, at some point I’m going to walk over and give it something to actually fucking beep about.