Joanna Bowman: On roundabout ways to get cheap thrills

Joanna questions the importance of having to ‘stop, look’ and ‘listen’.


A return to St Andrews means only one thing: a return to the very real possibility of death every day. Perhaps bleak words first thing on a Monday morning but, dear readers, true words.

I hear the cry now, ‘But, Jo, St Andrews consistently features in lists of the safest universities in Britain; how can coming to St Andrews from – heaven forbid –  South London, possibly bring you closer to death?’, and let me answer that with four simple words: the Roundabout of Death. Any St Andrean worth their salt should know exactly where I mean, but should you have escaped flirting with death on a daily basis, the Roundabout of Death is located at the west end of Market Street, between the North Haugh and town.

Despite there being two sets of lights either side of the roundabout, just after the hour every weekday hoards of students shirk the relative safety of a pedestrian crossing for the heart-stopping (in this instance quite possibly literally) experience of walking straight across said roundabout. The scene is completed with the sound and sight of cars screeching to a halt, and irate drivers shouting frequently using phrases unrepeatable in this publication.

And, I get where they are coming from. I really do. It can’t be particularly fun not only navigating the roadwork filled centre of St Andrews but also having to avoid causing a mass-wipeout of students. Whilst I do have a great deal of sympathy for the drivers, I must also think of myself in this instance: I could walk to the lights, adding precious time to my journey into town that could be spend browsing Buzzfeed, or I could inject a bit of fear into my day-to-day routine. In lieu of any adrenaline-boosting theme parks in the area of Fife, I find the easiest way to chase the thrill of rollercoasters is to step blindly into the junction of Market Street and hope for the best. My heart starts racing; I squeal; the only component missing is a photograph at the end to demonstrate the faces I assume must be pulled during the crossing, and to prove that I have survived this encounter.

My philosophy is that cars will get into more trouble if they hit me than I will so I’ll brazenly, and indeed happily, step out into the road oblivious to the frantically gesticulating and swearing bus drivers I seem to encounter on a daily basis. Que sera sera.  

(Sorry mum. Try not to worry too much.)