The bane of all the traffic was the 'tractor'.
Now, 'tractor' used to mean something smaller than a Commer Cob that could, at a push, achieve on the road, ooo, let's see, 15mph.
Nowadays, 'tractor' means something slightly larger than Oxforshire doing something in the region of 50mph and bouncing, on its balloon tyres, from kerb to kerb.
Overtaking for the average car would be easy, but driven by the average driver, this becomes impossible. So, the Wrinklies caravan heaves to at the end of a mile long queue of Mrs and Mr Slow going, well, slow.
By the time that Rae was in the bar, showered and changed and well into his fourth Lager, I was still trying to pick tines out of my fairing and wondering how the hell we came to be this congested