This is ridiculous, I ranted to myself.

The car in front edged forwards, perhaps two foot before his brake lights flooded my car with an appropriately angry red glow.

I could see the small roundabout ahead, usually providing a traffic calming effect but today on-coming cars from the right were decreasing our chances of making it through the temporary traffic lights just ahead.

This journey was supposed to have been a short detour to the Post Office and strangely on the two previous occasions I tried to make this delivery, I was hampered. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to send these leaking Wellington Boots back but, as described, they were not fit for purpose in the current wet weather, in fact any conditions where the donning of rubber, protective footwear was required.

I felt such a sense of frustration.

Why do all my plans always get thwarted?

Why was this so difficult?

I had purchased these Wellies in good faith, but no…of course my Wellies were the ones to be faulty!

With just one faulty pair coming off the production line it surely would be impossible for the Quality Inspection to pick this up. Oh no, they were sneaking along the conveyor furtively glancing at all the other Wellies daring them to give the game away. They had a journey to make and a job to do and now that they had soaked my socks and impregnated them with mud, their job was done.

They could relax.

They mocked me from the back seat of my car, from inside their box and packaging. They had won another battle and they gloated as I surrendered to another defeated limp home with them.

I felt persecuted.

My life seemed full of this sort of frustration. This detour had taken at least thirty minutes out of my day. A day still packed with my to-do-lists, an evening buzzing with anticipation until, again another snub for my time-keeping by a pair of faulty objects giggling in the back.

Still licking my supercilious wounds, I reached the mini roundabout, instantly contrite as I looked to my right and saw the reason for my inconvenience.

The blue flashing lights illuminated the distorted motorbike, its debris strewn across the road.

A buckled car was on the pavement and the bland streetlight reflected the pale, shocked faces of the crowd.

Other figures were kneeling by a mound of coats and blankets, paramedics standing talking to police officers but no longer attending to the biker.

Suddenly my Wellies were silenced, my life was perfect.

At least my life was still there for me…