Another day of driving in the dark and the fog begins. Last night, against all advice from friends and family, I shunned the main A-road home and chose to take my chances on the now-neglected old road from Newmarket to Cambridge.

The A14 will be lit in places.
It’s a straighter road.

You’ll be able to stay in the slow lane.
It’s sure to be gritted.

And you know what, it probably is. But so is the old road, and I know it by heart now. And yes, it doesn’t have a slow lane, but if morons want to kill themselves by overtaking me then they’re more than welcome to.

In my exhausted – and therefore worryingly poetic – state last night, I decided to take this as a metaphor for life. We all seem to be frightened by old things, thinking that for some reason they won’t be as good as the equivalents we’ve made. We are newer, brighter, braver, better, than those who came before and therefore our shiny new roads, electric sewing machines, microwave cookery and machine knit sweaters are superior.

I’m not so sure – the old road was there before the gritters and people still managed to pass. Since 1818, hand cranked sewing machines have been producing items we still come across today. The microwave has still to prove its place in any kitchen outside of the workplace for me, whilst the knowledge that someone has sat down and twitched out a garment for me on small metal sticks is the most incredible feeling ever.

What our generation has done is made the world faster – we haven’t necessarily made it better. Things can only go so quickly before they simply cease to function, and as a wise man once said, “Cars break down and people break down.” Speed isn’t necessarily for the best…

The problem is though, that the same wise man also made music to drive fast to… I can’t tell you how much I wish this fog would clear.