It's war! Horns blare in the distance ahead, revving engines surround me and the world shudders past as I move along a conveyor-belt of rush hour traffic. An enemy attacks from the right, entering my personal space, and I hammer downwards on the brake pedal - a four-sentence curse already building as my heart thumps. Instead, I pull my right hand off the steering wheel and reach for my concealed weapon. I fire it at the smug intruder ahead: not just a Barp, but a long Baaaaaaarp, as my pathetic retaliation fails to produce any lasting satisfaction.

“There has to be a better way,” I think. “We're all human, right?”

Shaking from the stress of driving one-point-five feet behind the car in front, and fearful that other tarmac bandits would attempt illicit encroachments, I arrive at work.

Behind me, I hear a cheerful, “Morning Frank! How you doing?”

Turning my head, I see Spandex Pete, in black Lycra cyclist shorts emblazoned with the words 'Eros Sportif' above an ungainly bulge.

“Bloody awful, Pete,” I growl, “the traffic y'know.”

“You only live a few miles away, don't you? You should cycle in. Keep you fit, like me!”

“Uh-Huh,” I answer, rather un-enthusiastically.

“Think about it, it'll do you good.” As Mr Spandex-buttocks walks away, I surprise myself by actually considering it. It must be more sociable than driving? I figure.