April 1st 46F, 8C, misty and still, with a threat of brightness. There is no traffic. At all! Given the date one is inclined to think that there is a wickedly funny policeman sending the traffic via the back lanes. But Denmark doesn't have any policemen. The Danish news website has just confirmed it. They even printed a map showing how many hours it takes for the police to attend an emergency call by geographical region. It is remarkably sober reading material.
Where is the constant traffic which rumbles along what passes for our humped and twisting "main" road? The traffic which often wakes us, but, unaccountably, not this morning. Where are they all? Are we the last left alive after a zombie outbreak? Has our rural isolation provided a negligible delay in our inevitable demise?
Should we prepare for the onslaught? As a hundred blood-covered, raggedy dolls stagger down our collective, potholed drive towards their next gory meal? Dare we raise the portcullis and lower the drawbridge for the non-existent post-bud Per? Where are the habitual collectors of bread, greasy pastries and rolls on the early bakery run. i.e.Those who feel compelled to always screech their tires on every corner? The sooner to be back into the hygge of their families and a hearty breakfast of snaps and beer. There is absolutely no sign or sound of life anywhere on this auspicious day.
Eventually I worked my way carefully along the backs of the roadside hedges. It did not take long to discover the real reason for the hiatus in the usual roaring traffic. Staccato commands were being barked at an elite task force of heavily armed agents in all-black, unmarked Hummers from the ironically-named, Danish Job Centers. Motto: "Work is Freedom, to stay!" The elite force had stopped another convoy of deluded, left wing politic-ooze. Whom had been unsuccessfully attempting to ferry yet more "illegals" across Denmark to the safety of Sweden's ghettos.
The fate of the "illegals" will probably remain unknown. As they were swiftly taken away at gunpoint in a fleet of IKEA's forced labour lorries to an uncertain fate. While the terrified politic-ooze were bundled together in one of the Hummers and taken back to the nearest Job Center. To be mercilessly interrogated by their psychological torture specialists.
So, the unexpected, commuter's "Silent Spring" was but short lived. As the completely innocent, traffic queue was soon released on their way to speed to their usual statistics. I kept to the verges on the way back with my head bowed. Just in case my scruffy dress style attracted attention as a possible escapee from the convoy. Once safely back in our rural hovel I could finally relax. As I tucked into marmalade covered rolls and instant coffee. Though always with my one good ear listening out for that dreaded knock on the door and a quick dive through the trapdoor into the escape tunnels.
I desperately need to build up my reserves for another surreptitious ride. To get more rations from the dingy backstreet supermarkets. Since they are all owned by offshore fund managers they will serve anybody with ready cash and a badly forged permit card. Even an unlikely tricyclist with a very dodgy accent. It helps that I am always heavily disguised as a Lycra clad weekend-warrior-clown. The staff take one look and quickly dismiss me as just another downtrodden, Job Center-damaged immigrant.
There are spies everywhere since the "Employment Minister" offered a small tax rebate as a reward for information leading to every conviction of an "illegal." So I play my part, from long practice, but my heart still pounds with fear of discovery in the endless queues at the checkouts. Which are routinely "manned" by prepubescent, eagle-eyed, true [obese] Aryan Danes.
Even long after reaching [Danish working classes] retirement age I am not safe. Broxit status is as good as "stateless" to the ruthless staff at the Job Centers. I could be forced onto the next plane home to a life of grinding poverty under May in the slums. Where everybody speaks in Cockney rhyming slang learned from the BBC's daytime, antiques fencing programmes.
The Danish middle classes have no such problem and always retire in their late 40s. With a free Audi, a summer house, a roof full of solar panels and a pension which constantly drains even the 98% taxation of the Danish working classes. Whom are forced to work from before long dawn to long after dusk during their long and arduous working lives in semi-Arctic conditions. Always at the mercy of a 'sting' by their own trades unions. Or [infinitely worse] hourly attendances for "re-education" when their jobs are "exported" en-masse to the ex-colonies which still openly practice slavery.
I tell myself that my fragile existence could be far worse. Only 100 years ago I might have been placed in a cage at the Tivoli Gardens and exhibited as an "entertainment of undesirables." Arranged for the visitors to poke with sticks [provided for a nominal sum] just to see if I would bite. Grrr?
In breaking news: I reached Assens and returned unscathed. Except for the fly which I inhaled on a climb. Leading to much coughing over the following miles. I seemed be completely bunged up. 19 miles.