Mistaken identity

I’ve been driving a large white van around North London. At first I felt rather butch and fabulous. I rolled the sleeves of my t-shirt up over my shoulders. I would have stuck a packet of Marlboro Lights in it if I hadn’t given up smoking again this morning. I cruised the streets, effortlessly navigating the Tuesday traffic. I entertained fantasies of a new life as a truck driver, leaving a string of broken hearts behind me as I roamed from town to town.

Now my back hurts. All I want is a nice gin and tonic and a scented bath. I guess it was never really going to work...