You look around your car. What’s in your survival kit? A half-eaten bag of crisps from three weeks ago. A crumpled receipt. Perhaps a single, sad glove. This is not the apocalypse you trained for.
You consider reading the car manual, but that’s a cry for help no one answers. Instead, you invent a new game: “How many times can I reheat the same thought about being late before my brain melts?” The answer is a lot. A real lot.
Your phone buzzes with messages from work: “Where are you?” You type a novel-length excuse that ends with “…and I’m very sorry about the crash.” Then you delete it and just send a crying emoji. It’s the universal language of traffic hell.
When Dignity Leaves the Building
After an hour, you abandon all pretense of professionalism. You’re now in survival mode. You might sing along to a commercial jingle. You might have a full conversation with your GPS, begging it for a shortcut that doesn’t exist.
“Siri, is there another way?” You know the answer. The answer is no. The only way out is through, like a bad marriage with the highway.
You look at the car next to you. The driver is also crying. You share a look of pure, silent solidarity. You’re both just survivors of the morning commute. No words needed. Just a nod. A nod that says, “I see you, friend. We’re in this mess together.”
M1 closed in Leicestershire after serious crash - Leicestershire Live
