Gob

Another evening, another balmy drive through some of my favourite motoring streets. My, how my pulse calms with every second spent behind the wheel. In fact, such was my rapture tonight, I was transported back in time to one of my happiest experiences of driving in this joyful little burgh. I meant to share this with you before, but somehow it slipped my mind.

I was on the way to work, just after lunch, about the same time that loads of kids are walking to school. I was driving. Three boys were crossing. I was near to them, and they to me. I knew what was about to happen because I had seen it happen before. I felt it brewing in the same way that a driver's sixth sense twitches just before a football rolls out in front of the car, shortly followed by a small, soon to be miraculously saved, child. It was going to be the fatty in the middle, I could tell. I watched, one eye on the road, one eye on the trio of 10-year-old ne’er-do-wells. He thought I wasn’t looking, and he hawked up a fat wad of phlegm from near the bottom of his lungs, rocked his head backwards and let fly at my car, opening his eyes just in time to see his snot hit my window, and my fuming eyes staring at him through the splattered mess. I’ve never seen a smile hit the dirt so fast.

He and his mates kept on walking. Scurrying, actually. I executed a screeching emergency stop, stalled, crunched the starter motor, reversed down a one-way street and parked blocking a junction.

“Me venís a limpiar el auto!” – “Come here and clean my car!”
Scurry-scurry-scurry-scurry-scurry.
“¡ME VENÍS A LIMPIAR EL AUTO!”

Sheepishly he headed back before asking me what he should clean it with. Not my problem.
So the poor cringing tyke had to wipe his own flob off my car with his coat sleeve. Who knows what psychological horrors I’ve unleashed by making him do it, but for goodness sake, do you just let him get away with it?

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