Sitting in wet Wednesday evening traffic on Clanbrassil Street, I switch the wipers to intermittent and put the handbrake on. The car feels like it's drawing breath. It's not just the car. I like Clanbrassil Street's slow snake of traffic after the clutch-heavy climb up Christchurch hill. I know I'm almost home. The raindrops gathering on the windscreen soak up the red of the traffic and tail lights ahead, the blinking orange of the indicators, the gleaming white headlamps of the oncoming cars. Just as their glitter and twinkle eclipses the road ahead, the wiper slowly smears the colour across the screen, a slow, squeaky sweep up and back, before the rain falls softly once more and dapples the dirty dark day with a little more light. I have to work to be optimistic, sometimes, when I'm feeling stuck and stealing five minutes where and when I can. But in wet Wednesday evening traffic on Clanbrassil Street, with a thousand lights shining through the drizzle, I'll smile.
“It was like paying money to watch someone beat a dog.” - *Lost Memory of Skin by Russell Banks*