M1 Is Closed with Delays After a Serious Crash
Eventually, after what feels like a biblical flood of tail lights, the cars stretch. Movement! It’s a miracle. You feel a surge of joy that a lottery winner would envy. You are moving! The speedometer climbs from zero to three miles per hour, and you cheer like you just scored a goal at the World Cup.
You pass the crash site. A solemn, quiet stretch. You slow down because you’re a decent human, even if you were just swearing at a traffic cone. You offer a silent “sorry” to the universe, and then you floor it.
By the time you reach the office, you’re an hour late, your hair looks like you fought a wind turbine, and your coffee is cold. But you’re alive. You walk in with a grin that says, “I survived the M1.” Everyone nods. They know. They all know.
The Aftermath
That evening, you drive home on the same road. It’s clear. Smooth. Like nothing ever happened. But you remember. The trauma is real. You avoid the left lane like it’s haunted, and you give every other driver a wide berth, just in case.
And when you get home, you pour yourself a very, very large glass of something. You toast to the crash, the delays, and the guy who tried to merge in a Ford Fiesta. You made it. That’s all that matters. Until tomorrow morning, when you check your phone again.
But hey, at least you know the drill. See you in the queue, friend.