Car parking

There is war, disease, pestilence and famine. In some countries it is rife. Even today. 150 years ago, you were lucky to live past the age of 5, and the most dealy diseases we now think of as myth, rather than the evil spirits they were that occupied the forbidden corners of the world.

Given the seemingly miraculous world in which we, certainly in the UK at least, live in, we get angry about the most mundane things. Getting our order wrong in a restaurant has replaced, in some mens minds, the slapping and throwing down of the gauntlet, yet retold of as ancient lore.

Someone else's thrusting of their metal travel capsule infront of our own, rather than representing the evolutionary superiority it would if these machinations were organic and natural to our person, instead incite a challenge within us. Something stirs. Something primal emerges. We feel challenged; challenged to our right to life, to exist, and to colonise resources.

The occupation of that sparse, tarmac-and-paint space requires a hunt, tactics and above all, stamina. The wife needs shoes, the son needs school uniforms, the daughter needs a tinkle and the mother-in-law needs a slap. I can see this in his eyes - the pressure is immense and the only release is success.

His thrust is bold, but not perfect. He reels back and readys another rally. His resolve is strong, but not as strong as the car. The car is mighty - a product of some of the finest minds available. Technologies from around the world are melded together seemlessly to operate towards a singular aim - to transport the modern Neanderthal around, to consume rare fruits from the earth to warm his feet and cool his face, and, provided he has the money, to give him pride and at times prejudice on the roads of the world.

This is his final weapon - the assault of honour. As the triumph that is his car glides effortlessly into glory, I can only concede.

He gets the parking space. I don't.

And I'm sorry for him - but more for his car.

M.