When people ask me about my car, sometimes I tell them ‘I don’t drive’, sometimes I tell them ‘I can’t drive’. I prefer the former expression, which suggests an element of choice, and hints that the choice has an ecological bent to it. It’s true, I hate cars, I hate what they’re doing to the world, and I want to get into them as little as I can possibly help it. I do, however, accept a lift when it is convenient to me, and so I was sitting in the passenger seat of a red Hyundai on Saturday evening, at about 7.30 pm, being driven Lewes-wards up Ashcombe Lane after a visit to Kingston.
Back when I was a kid this was a narrow seldom-used country lane, but after they built the by-pass they widened it very slightly and now it's a narrow main road down which far too many cars drive far too fast. As we approached Nan Kemp’s Corner we met one of these careering down the hill, and there was a heart-stopping crash. We stopped, they didn’t. Our wing-mirror had been shattered.
I’ve often wondered what our ancestors will think of the period in which we hurtled around on asphalt roads in little metal boxes. Presumably they’ll think it was a completely crazy period. They’ll show each other pictures of car wrecks. “They travelled at up to a hundred miles an hour. Accidents were common,” they’ll say. “And you know what? They used to drive these things in opposite directions on the same stretch of road, passing one another with inches to spare. Of course, sometimes they collided. Millions were killed that way.”
Our front cover, by Bill Major, shows what Southover High Street would look like if it weren’t clogged up with cars. It would be lovely if someone could ever take this shot without having to spend hours on Photoshop. It would be nice if the whole town wasn't clogged with traffic. Next time, I’ll cycle to Kingston. Enjoy the week.