Some mornings, you're driving to work through impassable walls of four wheel drive behemoths piloted by apparently tiny people and their microscopic infants, buried somewhere in the incredibly padded interiors, and you hit the perfect lane.
It's a lane of traffic, not necessarily travelling fast, but moving steadily, no, smoothly. Everything feels right. The car deigns not to judder unexpectedly because you're pushing it in too high a gear, and instead creeps gracefully up to 30 mph. You lean back in the seat, drink in the weak rays of the sun, enjoy whatever your preference on the stereo happens to be, and best of all, your lane is going just a bit faster than all the others. You look far up ahead and see that it shows no sign of slowing. Life is good, just for that perfect instant,
and infinitely better for just realising that fact.
It must be how surfers feel when they catch a bit of the perfect wave. That moment that makes you remember why you took your driving test.
Finally you reach the traffic lights and have to stop, but it doesn't matter, because just for a moment that morning you drove the perfect lane.
For the record, the perfect lane for me this morning was the outside lane approaching Bury from Brandlesholme. It lasted from B&Q to the traffic lights by the town hall.
Laters, dudes.
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