Reciprocity

I don't like Micras.
And they hate me in return.

That last free spot in the airport car park, after you've been driving round in circles for longer than your actual flight time...
It isn't a free spot after all. It's a shaggin' Micra. You just don't see it till the very last second...

That vehicle half a mile ahead of you, snaking its way on a twisty country road at 32mph with 72 cars stuck behind and no possibility to overtake...
Is it a tractor? No, another shaggin' Micra.

That blue ballistic missile about to hit you sideways at the crossroads.
Another shaggin Micra, piloted by a granny in her nineties on her weekly trip to Tesco, with her friend who is hard of hearing. She does not know about traffic lights, right of way, continuous white lines or bus lanes. The old dear knows the basics: ignition, screaming first gear, screaming second gear, Tesco, home.

Sometimes Micras get what they deserve.