I seem to have lost the ability to cross the road. Historically I was one of the great road crossers: adventurous, brave and with split-second timing I would run out in front of oncoming traffic, always just making the far curb. The horns might blow, motorists might hurl abuse from their windows, but I would be on my way. Now I am a sorry shadow of my former self – cursed with extreme timidity, unable to take that decisive first step.
I blame travel for this. Earlier in the year I visited the US, Canada and Australia in quick succession. I knew that in one of those places, motorists drive on the left, but I was never able to recall if it was Canada or Australia (it was obviously somewhere that still had the Queen knocking about in some capacity). This combined with the presence of trams in some of the cities I visited created some kind of heightened disorientation when crossing the road. I became entirely dependent on the green man – a figure I had previously always disdained. I spent a long time waiting for him. I waited for him in Toronto during a snowstorm. I waited for him in New York while the north wind blew grit in my face. I waited for him in Sydney where the sun burnt me through grey clouds, and I waited for him in Melbourne whilst I tried to avoid being hit by a tram.
On returning to England, I regained my former devil may care attitude and was once more striding purposefully into the carriageway, but then I went to Amsterdam, where as well as traffic coming the wrong way, as well as trams gliding silently around corners, there are of course thousands of cyclists just waiting for an opportunity to use their bell. I gave them plenty.
Since then I’ve been a broken pedestrian. One of those pathetic creatures who presses the button for the green man even when there isn’t a car on the horizon. I am dependent on him even in my own country and this pains me greatly because he is essentially a deeply unendearing character. He takes his time and when he finally does arrive it’s with a self-aggrandising fanfare of bleeps or clicks. I sense the smugness in his glow. He looks on me as a sinner returned to the fold. I despise his sickly green embrace.
I have noted a similar caution growing within myself from the <>inside<> of the car. As an 18-year-old courier, I would put the pedal to the metal and fly along the country roads of the Northampton > Peterborough > Bedford > Northampton triangle, ripping past any slowpokes who had the temerity to get in my way.Now, not even a clear, straight road stretching from my front wheels to the horizon is enough to coax me into overtaking even the most ambling of tractors; I will <>always<> brake to observe Hilton’s clearly typoed 30mph “speed” limit; and at any sign of a pedestrian, my right foot lurches left to ‘cover’ the brake pedal, just as my driving instructor Merv ‘the swerve’ taught me.The downside? I am an angrier, more bitter, more frustrated driver with a far higher blood pressure than ever I was when I would sail past with a pip pip and a byeeee.The upside? If you and I ever meet, I in my car, you on your shoes, I am sure we will take so long to reach one another, you will have decided not to bother crossing in the first place.
Hello there,I’m researching an article on Barcelona (and Sitges) as an area to work in creatively. I was wondering if I might be able to ask you some questions about that, as I seem to remember you spent quite some time there writing. I hope you don’t mind my making contact this way!Best,Catherine Bray— Catherine BrayCommissioning Editorcatherine.bray@gmail.comhttp://www.channel4.com/4talentcentralhttp://catherinebray.wordpress.com/twitter.com/4talent+44(0)7908 783 475
I wonder whether the green man and the red man ever talk to one another. My grandma told me that their’s is a dispute that’s been running for years.