Driving home from work on Friday evening was an ordeal. My main route home was impassable, and my second choice was even worse.
My third choice involves a very narrow country lane, but I figured that I might as well give it a whirl, because the alternative was a very, very long detour.
Things were looking promising, and I encountered three cars coming the other way, in quick succession. This was a good sign, because it meant that the road was passable. If it had been impassable, then these three cars would have either been reversing, or much more spread out. I reached the very lowest point on the road, where a large, deep puddle crossed my path. I slowed down, but not too much, and went through.
As I drove through the puddle, I became aware of two things.
Firstly, a quantity of steam coming off the bonnet of my car. This was a little worrying, but I kept my faith.
Secondly, a motorcyclist coming in the other direction, with a look of terror on his face, hollering something incomprehensible. We must have entered the water at about the same time.
It wasn’t until late that night, trying to get to sleep, that I cast my mind back to the motorcyclist. With the clarity of hindsight, I could now picture him in my rear view mirror, totally submerged by the wall of water being thrown up by my car.
And I racked my brains to try and figure out whether he had entered the water before or after me. Because my conscience really wants it to be the latter.
For the record, I did get home eventually. My third route was impassable, as was my fourth, but by this point I was close enough to home that I could park the car on high ground, roll up my trouser legs, and it was only a five minute walk home. All in all, it took me an hour to get home, where it normally takes me 10-15 minutes.