grumpyf1

A tricky dilemma for me this week: I’m British so I should enjoy queuing, but it turns out I really, really, don’t. Especially when it should be easily preventable. Compared to some, I have a sweet commute. I leave my pretty village, drive through lovely countryside with views of mountains, skirt around England’s largest lake, then arrive at work, 25 miles later, on the edge of Ambleside. I could be on the M25. Or Basingstoke. Or somewhere in a tube train, hurtling along below ground pressed against a sweaty guy with an annoying cough who bathes in garlic oil. Sure, there are some occasional annoyances; tourists in 4x4s who seem terrified that there’s a dry stone wall close to their car; Rivers and lakes that sometimes get over-keen and try to muscle in on the roads; Idiots in Audis (I don’t need to qualify that one, do I?). But there is one irritation that outstrips all others and I encountered the latest incarnation of it this week, when a set of temporary traffic lights a...