Compassion for the car in front

It was only when we got to the traffic lights I got to catch his eye. Deep blue tattoos. Friendly-looking chap, confirming what I thought.

That queue of traffic had been slow.

All that time I'd been stuck behind his rear window which was bearing an expletive.

I knew what he meant by the sticker.

The sentiment wasn't all wrong.

And it wasn't aimed at me — except it was.

For about five minutes. Right there in my face.

Each one of the four words on a corner of a Cornish flag, looking handwritten. Black pen on white vinyl.

F_ your second home.

Last week I drove past a sign outside someone's house.

"Welcome to Redruth. Sorry about your wifi!"

Again, not wrong.

Several times I've pitched in a nearby cafe to write only to find a complete internet blackout.

And a fluttering Cornish flag is always visible from my kitchen sink.

The house on the corner. No other slogan.

But that pen on vinyl.

I wondered what his story was.

I've seen some who were strong believers

who met injustice.

and turned to Frank Turner.

Still believing. But now with a vehemence that seemed more aggressive than worship.

F_your second home.

In my face.

For five minutes.

His car was old, really, but big enough to sleep in.

Something unjust must have struck him, though.

I wonder what it was.