Lost highway

Deep breaths. Swap ‘Hound Dog’ Taylor for Toumanie Diabaté. Wind window down, rest bare arm on sill. Feel warm breeze on bonce. Tell self to overcome anger as only hurting self. Tell self to count blessings, live in moment. Tell self kids back at school next week, after which fewer holidaymakers, traffic less horrendous. Tell self, finally, no need to hurry, film doesn’t start for an hour.

A sharp bend in the road ahead. Our procession goes very slowly round the bend then comes to a dead stop. The combine harvester has caught up with the tail end of a queue of stationary traffic snaking down to the T-junction. I can see police down at the T-junction and a line of cones across the road. The police are telling drivers they can’t turn right, by the look of it. I can see cars wanting to turn right hesitantly heading off left.