Coming to America

You come groggily to your senses, unsure what the time is, or indeed where you are. Maybe you were on a plane? Maybe this is the jet lag? Suddenly a horn blares outside, immediately followed by the unmistakable cacophony of brakes screeching, metal crunching and glass shattering.

You stagger out of bed and stumble to the window, pulling the curtains, squinting against the morning light. The first thing you notice is the rain streaming down the panes. The pitter patter of it landing on the road outside. The smell of a road surface that’s not seen any in a long time. Only then do you put two and two together. There’s only one place in the world you can be: Los Angeles.

It must be a little like the way the Scandinavians view Brits when they see us careering all over the road in the slightest snowfall, crashing into anything that moves, and especially those that don’t. Transpose Corby for California and you see the exact same thing when it rains. SoCal denizens see this magical stuff coming from the sky and, thrilled, set social media alight. Then they all jump in their cars to fetch their obligatory iced oat milk latte, only to skid directly into the nearest fire hydrant, lamp post or vehicle in front – causing absolute mayhem in a city not known for its otherwise free flowing traffic.