The first 15 minutes, you’re full of hope. “It’ll clear up soon,” you whisper. By minute 45, you’ve become a philosopher, questioning every life choice that led you to this tarmac hell. By hour one, you’ve mentally divorced your job and are planning a new life in a cottage with no roads.
Then, the real kicker: you see a flash of blue lights up ahead. Hope flickers. Maybe the lane opens! You inch forward, your heart racing like a kid on Christmas morning. But no—it’s just a police car monitoring the queue. You slump back in your seat, defeated.
M25 traffic latest: Three lanes closed, severe travel delays after
One poor soul got out of his car to stretch his legs. He walked ten cars ahead, had a chat with a lorry driver about the weather, and walked back. That’s how long the standstill was. You could have taken a short holiday in the time it took to move one mile.
The Aftermath (And the Jokes)
Eventually, you clear the scene. You see a dented barrier and a tragic-looking recovery truck. You feel a tiny pang of guilt for complaining about your delay, because someone had a much worse day. But that feeling lasts about three seconds before you’re cursing the traffic again.
The rest of the day is a blur of sarcastic texts to colleagues. “No, I didn’t make the 9 AM meeting. I made it to the 10:30 AM viewing of the M25’s static car show.” You arrive at work looking like you’ve been through a minor war, your coffee cold, your spirit broken.
And then, you hear the best joke of the day: “At least it wasn’t the Dartford Crossing.” You laugh, because you know it’s true. The M25 is a cruel mistress, but she makes for a great story, as long as you’re not in the driver’s seat. Next time, I’m taking the train. Or maybe a bicycle. Or a hare.
