Dawn cracks the grey skies into blue, and the radio seems to crackle louder. This time of road-weary truck drivers rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and the mad-dash commuters tearing holes in the tar, as their too-fast sports cars don’t quite make it into the crisp, morning air.
And I’m tired of doing the same thing more slowly, tired of life beating with the rhythm of the traffic and the rain drumming relentlessly on the chipped windshield. But on and on I go, chanting in time with the wipers: ‘wish it was the weekend, wish it was the weekend, wish it was the weekend’.
Fraser
August 2023