HURRY UP. WE’RE DREAMING
as AA Gill might have said, as predictable as a cheese sandwich. Trevor in his M3 – I know this from his personalised number plate – not happy until his organs are jostling for space inside him, is lane hopping and usually ends up back where he started. The Renault Megane incubus, in a puffer jacket, has a rictus grin as he checks in every morning for his traffic jam Zoom meeting. The Fortuner tailgater tribe, reliving the weekend’s Cederberg obstacle heroics. The hands-free make-up artist in an Audi Q2, the counterpoint khakis in 30-year-old bakkies held together with hope and desperation. But most predictable of all is the peloton of BMW F 800s that crawl carefully past me, a tightknit, button-down platoon, 6:15 am alarms synchronised so they all appear at the R26 traffic light together. These
