Shattered Dreams


Batman.  Fictional hero?  Or a real man with no more than stubble-grazed chin and kissable lips on display.  Either way, he is adored by billions.  Plus me.

So, the other day as I drive into north London to meet with my daughter and take her to dinner, I could not believe my eyes when, clearly visible through the windscreen ahead of me, in the fast lane of the A41, there he was.   I say fast lane – perhaps I should clarify that no cars in the vicinity were going any faster than 30-35mph.  The almost continual brake lights were the only contrasting colour to an otherwise mat black bodywork finish.  It had to be him, surely?  My heart beat faster and I could not supress a cheeky smile.  Fast super cars, even stationary, get my blood pumping.  Those being driven, by alpa males in their super-prime, even more so.  Let me at him!

Here was my chance, to see Batman in the flesh.  These were my thoughts as I willed the cars in front of me to go just a little faster.  The dirty white van in front slowed again, enabling me to read clearly the rude comment written with a finger tip in the grime across the back doors.  At some traffic lights, we all paused and he was still three cars ahead.  I lowered my driver’s window in the hope to hear a Lamborghini engine do its thing and as the lights turned to green, I was far from disappointed.  The deep, throaty roar was evident even without a clear road in front of him, and the Reventon’s incredible lines made it easily the lowest car in the queue of traffic.


As I am now a good girl and no longer take photos with my phone when driving, I shall share a google-based illustration of said car so you are able to picture this scenario alongside me.

So we are at the Hendon roundabout and now is my chance as Batman’s queue is stalling while mine is moving; hoorah!  Two cars ahead … now only one.  My heart is banging in my chest and I begin arguing with myself.  You’re not seriously going to look in, are you?  That’s so uncool!   Are you kidding – of course I am!  He’s gonna be so hot, I mean, look at those wheels.  Just drive past and behave like a lady.   Sorry, no can do; gotta look.  Now be quiet and let me concentrate.  The van is about to pull away, meaning I will be level.  Oh bugger, the Renault in front of HIM has pulled away and he must have been glued to his tailgate.  Roar.  Damn – c’mon van!

Both lanes continue their way towards Golders Green.   This is the most fun I’ve had whilst maintaining the speed limit of 40 on the Brent Cross flyover!  The black-caped crusader is only one car ahead of the white Range Rover next to me.  I glance right (in practice, ignoring my conscience) and see a middle aged lady actually cleaning her teeth.  True story.  I look back to where I am going, but need confirmation of this vision and sure enough, yes, she is pushing a toothbrush in and out of her mouth with her right hand whilst guiding her chunky steering wheel with her left.  A small astonished noise escapes my mouth, not so much a laugh as something aghast as I visualise what she will do with the spittle.  No time … I’m gaining.  Flick the hair behind my shoulder, here we go, half a car’s length … Hello my darling; where have you been all my life?  Don’t do it; don’t look!

I look.  I’m smiling.  I look back.  Its not Batman, nor Daniel Craig, nor George Clooney, nor any young alpha.   Never judge a book by its cover.   This sexy-arse car is being driven by,  Mr Filch, the care-taker.  Minus the cat!

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