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It was a strange day, because later on, after work, I am sat in my car at lights, minding my own business. I am at the head of the queue, I know the lights will be on red for a good time yet. 2 seconds later, I hear a hooter and look in my rear view mirror, thinking that the person behind is trying to force me to pull off into the path of crossing traffic. But there is no evidence of road rage brewing in the eyes of the 70 year-old man sat expressionless at the wheel. The light in front of me is still on red. I settle back to my own thoughts, eyes fixed on the traffic signals.

Out the corner of my eye, I see a middle aged woman in a car next to me, waving frantically for me to wind down my side window. I realise she was probably the one who had hooted me. I oblige, and she politely shouts, “How’s the revolution going?”

I have no clue what she is talking about. (I am expecting to be asked for directions to some address in an obscure cul-de-sac on the other side of a town I don’t know.) “Revolution?”

“Yes, with your green cap, wrap round sunglasses, shaggy beard and green fleece, you look like Che Guevara sat there.”

Blimey, that was a first. We both laughed, the lights changed to green and off we went. I had a belly laugh going for a good 10 minutes. Needless to say, I attacked my face with clippers as soon as I got home, and despite the claims about climate change, there is no need for sunglasses in wintery gray England, so, for the time-being, the revolution is truly over.

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