In the car. Trying to get off the slip road. The drivers see me, don’t let me out. They’re drinking from portable mugs, home-barista coffee. I raise my toddler’s pink sippy cup, mouth asshole as they pass. Someone will be on the phone to the cops, on their way to remove the deviant with the pink cup and the filthy car. That just proves he’s dangerous, officer, our Range Rover is washed twice a month by Romanian immigrants we despise.
The eyes leave mine. Eyes forward. Ten to two death grip of the perma-commuter. Phil Collins greatest hits was re-re-released this Christmas. They’re all playing it, I know they are. I can hear it, I can feel it coming…. A pleasure that isn’t even guilty, just pleasure. Think about that… In at Number 1, 10 of 21 tracks this morning and still not enough inanity to make them relent and let me out, what does it take, you swines, I see your black slip-ons, delicately pressing the accelerator to move along and block me, shiny black slips-ons that were undoubtedly another ironic present, you know, to go with the CD? It’s just a laugh! Except its oh so serious because the eighties was your time, T’Pau and Huey Lewis, hand shandies and Susannah Hoffs, before the statins and the school run kids in the back seat.
Those poor sods have no chance. Don’t anaesthetise your children, terrify them, play some avant-garde jazz like the Ornette Coleman I’m cranking up, take pride in their panicked little faces, it’s a learning experience, see, same reason you should always refuse to give back the sippy cup, no matter how much they shout. You bought it, after all, it’s your cup, you’ll keep on raising it until someone lets you out…