Every afternoon on my journey home from work there are two or three traffic hot spots that cause me anxiety as I approach them:

The latter queue is a depressing place to be held in traffic. It represents a journey through time that I took on foot or by bus many times as a child as I went to the local market or swimming pool, or the local children’s hospital where my sister was a regular inpatient. It’s not in a particularly deprived area, but nor is it affluent, but for all my life it’s always felt run down, in need of some TLC, a bit of investment.

This used to be a Co-op, now it’s a bargain shoe store

The market disappeared years ago, it’s an Asda now. The shops that lined the road have gradually been taken over by takeaway after takeaway. As I sit in the traffic, hoping for a speedy change of lights, I look at their signs. Chicken, curry, kebabs, burgers – over and over. Some look less than attractive, but others have been renovated recently; I really fancy the look of Sykes’ chippy, the only stalwart from my youth.

Kurry Hut for a kebab?

The Windmill in all its glory

I am overwhelmed with depression. Why can’t they phase the lights so the queue in this directions isn’t so bad at this time? Why not introduce parking restrictions to open up traffic flow on the approach to the junction? Why not do something other than hand out fast food licences when these premises are leased out? Probably because they’re the only sorts of businesses that are successful there.

As I finally reach the set of lights that have delayed me, the feelings of anxiety start to subside. It’s a clear road from here. Thirty seconds along and I’m past my parents’ house, past my primary school, past my past and into my now. Is it past or passed? I never know.

The final stretch approaches