Twice in two days, I have crossed a zebra crossing. Twice have I had one foot on the stripe on the road, when a car zoomed past in front of me, refusing to stop.
One was a 'L' plate young bloke, the other was a middle-aged woman.
The license plate number of one of the cars... is but a vague memory in my mind. I only remember xxx4869x.
I swear I will run up to the car when it stops at the dotted line to filter out to the main road (where most zebra crossings are situated), and punch a dent in the rear boot of the car. You can call me a coward, but I will then run away as fast as I can (where the driver can't catch me without getting off the vehicle).
My mind is set, and my fists are ready.
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