Now just take a look at this guy, John thinks to himself as he punches his car horn. He doesn’t press it. Or even push at it. He literally punches the section of the steering wheel which is devoted to the horn sounding system. His raw emotion transmits. The hoot that comes out is a short loud angry sounding hoot. One to let the idiot in front know exactly what is thought about him.

            ‘GET OUT OF THE WAY YOU MORON!’ John shouts. Maybe his voice will exit his windscreen, glide seamlessly through the moving air and enter the other guy’s Ford Focus which is doing sixty nine on a motorway. Sadly it doesn’t. The car in front continues to drive just below the legal speed limit, oblivious to the vengeance he is creating. John drops a gear and swings out into the left hand lane. He doesn’t indicate or check his mirror. They must all know that he is angry and prone to taking action at the atrocity which is facing him. He presses down hard on the accelerator and the engine responds as it is used to doing. John quickly moves up beside the law abider and just before he pulls in front, he looks over at his enemy. He seems unaware that he has done anything wrong and is calmly staring at the road ahead.

            ‘OI!’ John shouts again. This time he waves his arm angrily in the law abider’s direction. It does the trick. He must have caught the odd movement in his peripheral and he glances over.

            “MOVE OUT OF THE *!?#ING WAY NEXT TIME’ John offers to the law abider who simply stares back, a completely confused expression on his face. John doesn’t waste time trying to make him understand his folly. He pulls ahead and cuts sharply in front of the Ford. Just for good measure, he taps the brakes. The Ford does the same, with a nervous weave close to the centre island. He flashes his brights. John smiles to himself. Returns a one finger salute in his rear view and takes off. Pedal to the metal, as they say. Another flash of light. This time it slightly blinds John. He wonders what the hell it was. Then he sees it. Becoming smaller and smaller in his wing mirror. The speed trap.

            ‘!#?% IT!’ John bellows, his face turning a deep crimson. The kind of crimson that is likened to the setting of the sun on a clear evening. The type of evening which tells you that a storm is on the horizon.

Half an hour passes before John reaches a sign. It tells him that he has almost twenty more miles until he reaches the M25 intersection. The petrol gauge indicates that refuelling is necessary. Or a forced stoppage will be imminent. The car is running on fumes by the time it is glides into the Welcome Break service station. He drives around for a while and the only parking places that he can find are in a different time zone. Then he spots it.

He parks up in a disabled bay right near the front of the service station entrance. They’ve got about twenty bays marked off for disabled drivers, John thinks to himself. Since when do twenty disabled drivers all come to the service station all at the same time? They’re taking the mickey. I bet it’s the government with their political correctness and equality rubbish. Making sure that the disabled are well looked after. THERE AREN’T ANY HERE TO BE LOOKED AFTER! I need looking after too, so my car will be fine where it is. Just let someone try and challenge me.

            John slams his car door and stalks off inside the building. The sliding doors jam a little as John is marching through and he bangs his shoulder on the edge. He stops in his tracks and examines the scuff mark on the shoulder pad of the suit jacket that he is sporting. A lone thread has torn away from its home and is poking out like that renegade strand of hair at the back of the head that won’t lie flat. John mumbles under his breath. I don’t think that there is much need to clarify what it was. The subject matter should be obvious by now.

            ‘You there, where is the manager of this death trap?’ John questions a cleaner who is wheeling a bucket past him.

            ‘Sorry?’ the cleaner asks. John puffs out his cheeks I irritation.

            ‘I said…where…is…the…manager…of…this…death…trap. You understand that?’ John replies in a sarcastic, patronising tone. He can feel the blood rushing into his cheeks again. People want to work serving the public at large but they can’t even understand the spoken language of the country. They shouldn’t be allowed out of their homes.

            The cleaner points in the direction of a door which is labelled duty manager. John turns on his heels and strides up to the door. His knock is loud and brash. You can almost see the splinters fly off in every direction. He doesn’t wait for reply. Instead he grabs the door knob, twists it vigorously and pushes his way through. Waiting for him is a middle aged woman sitting at a desk, pen in hand, glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looks at the reason for the intrusion with bewilderment etched onto her face. Her mouth open in that way that it does when someone just tells us that a person very dear to them has just passed away.

            ‘Are you the manager?’ John demands. The woman, whose name tag tells us that she is called Rosie, nods her head once enough composure is regained. She clears her throat.

            ‘Yes sir, how can I help?’ she replies.

John snakes his torso so that his left shoulder is pointing in Rosie’s general direction.

            ‘The doors to your stupid building that are supposed to open fully to let the public in have just jammed in my way. Just look at the damage caused’ John says tersely. Rosie slips the glasses from her face and simultaneously squints her eyes while rising from her seat.   

            ‘Um…what exactly…?’ she stutters as she strains to acknowledge the problem.

            ‘THIS!’ John shouts as he points to the almost departed strand. ‘Are you blind? Now what are you going o do about it, or do I have to take this further and talk to someone senior and more competent?’

            ‘No sir, absolutely not, I am fully capable of dealing with your problem. I can…’ Rosie counters but she is ruthlessly cut off from continuing.

            ‘MY PROBLEM? THIS IS NOT MY PROBLEM. THIS IS YOUR PROBLEM DARLING. NOW WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT, OR DO I HAVE TO SUE?’

John walks back to his car with a pack of prawn mayonnaise sandwiches and a half litre coke – on the house – minus his suit jacket. Rosie will have the suit jacket repaired and delivered back to John, within a week, or there will be trouble.

            John, a little calmed now, sits in his car and guns the engine. An attendant is approaching his car, ambling over with casual intent. He approaches from in front if John’s car so he can’t drive away. John opens his window as the attendant gestures for communication.

‘Hi there sir’

            ‘What?’

            ‘Sir, you are…’

            ‘FREDDIE!’

Both John and the attendant switch their attention away from each other look to the origin of the yell. It’s Rosie.

            ‘IT’S OKAY, LET HIM LEAVE’

The attendant shrugs his shoulders and steps away from the vehicle.

            ‘Have a nice day, sir’

Just then it clicks into place. This little spotty faced terror was about to berate John for parking in a disabled bay. You give them a uniform and they think that they have enough power to start World War 3. He can’t even get the creases out of his shirt.

            Rosie is standing at the doorway wringing her hands nervously hoping that no damage has been done. The low fuel light illuminates taking John’s attention away from the situation. As though the car is trying to calm John down by pulling him away to the petrol station. But it is like a five year old attempting to break up a fight between a set of Liverpool and Man Utd fans. Futile.

            ‘Hey, listen hear’ John says as he rounds up on the attendant. ‘Take a look around the car park. You want me to park half a mile away while there are twenty free spaces right in front of the building. What are these spaces for, huh? No one’s using them. You want me to look at them and tell everyone how sweet it is that the paraplegics can park next to the building?’

            The attendant stops in his tracks unsure of how to proceed or respond. He holds his hands behind his back and looks at the floor.

            ‘Oh, your shoes are so interesting all of a sudden that you can’t answer me? Are you that dumb that you can’t have an adult conversation? Why don’t you go get a real job, something you’re qualified for?…HEY YOU, COME HERE’ John cries out. But not at the attendant. He leaps out of the car and marches past the dumbstruck attendant towards the shocked Rosie. But John ignores them both. Instead he snatches the handles of the cleaner’s trolley who is walking past the exit. The cleaner is about to react but is pulled away by Rosie who snaps out of her trance. John pushes the trolley at the attendant, oblivious to the growing crowd.

            ‘There you go, son. Your new job. Something you’re qualified for. Don’t thank me now. You’ll thank me later’

After filling thirty pounds unleaded into the car, John is back on the road. He accelerates up to ninety, rejoins the fast lane and tails the car in front despite there being traffic in front. The driver repeatedly shoots annoyed glances at John through his rear view. John heatedly gestures back using two fingers to point at his own eyes then points forwards. This is the international sign language which means looks forwards and keep your eyes on the road unless you want to end up in the hospital. The man complies. John settles back into his seat. Turns on the radio. Tunes the frequency into an easy listening station so he can listen to some relaxing songs from the golden age of Sinatra. His mobile starts ringing. A quick look tells John that the office is trying to reach him. John clicks a button on his Bluetooth device and the call connects.

            ‘Yes?’ John says.

            ‘Hello sir, this is Christine’ a young female voice says.

            ‘Yes Christine, what can I do for you?’

            ‘Sir, there is a problem with the Sun Growth Project. Robson has rejected the contract. He wants some clauses altered. Namely your inclusion of 4.2.1’

            There is silence as John takes in the information. As his brain processes the necessary reaction needed.

            ‘So what you are telling me Christine, is that we now lose twenty percent of the potential profit of the deal. Is that right Christine?’

            ‘Yes sir, if we can’t persuade Robson to accept the contract as is’ Christine replies nervously.

            ‘That is HALF A MILLION POUNDS! ARE YOU TOTALLY STUPID OR DO YOU STILL HAVE AN ONCE OF INTELLIGENCE IN THAT BLONDE HEAD OF YOURS THAT IS ACCESSIBLE TO YOU?’

            ‘But…sir…I think…’

            ‘THINK? THINK? YOU COULDN’T THINK IF ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS CONSTRUCT A SHOPPING LIST. NOW YOU GET ON THE PHONE, DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO AND MAKE SURE THE CONTRACT IS SIGNED. I DON’T CARE IF YOU HAVE TO GET ON YOUR KNEES AND BLOW ROBSON TILL HE EXPLODES. GET IT DONE OR I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU EVER AGAIN. YOU UNDERSTAND?’ John roars into the phone.

            ‘Sir…I’m trying to…’ Christine begins, but she is ruthlessly cut off as John cuts the line. Back in the car John grinds his teeth in frustration. His hands start to wring the steering wheel. Tighter and tighter. Then he lets out a primeval cry and embarks on a hissy fit, throwing his fists around the car’s interior striking at whatever he can. Even the Teletubby dangling from the rear view mirror takes a smack in the face. John is totally unaware of the show he is displaying to all of the drivers in the middle lane as he passes them. They can only see a man driving past them at more than the speed limit while randomly striking at parts of the car and shouting expletives. It takes a moment for John to calm down but he manages it. They can’t do anything right, John tells himself as he pledges to see heads roll when he gets back to the office tomorrow.

            John turns up the volume of the stereo and completely immerses himself in the soothing sounds of Otis Redding to help lower his blood pressure. It does the trick. Before he knows it, John thinks that he it actually sitting on the dock of a bay listening to a rolling waves crash onto a beach. He loosens his tie and undoes the top button fastening his shirt. The extra room allows him to let out a big sigh and he is once again calm to the world. He adjusts the head rest and settles back.

There it is. The M11 connection. John comes off the boring M25 and links up with the passage into Essex and the edge of London. The traffic becomes a little heavier here as more and more cars are using this entrance into the capital. The increase in traffic causes the average speed to drop as the gaps between cars is reduced. John doesn’t mind this kind of traffic. He will gladly travel slower if everyone else is doing the same. As long as no one is getting one over on him, he is content to wait patiently like the rest of the world. By the time he makes it to the Wanstead flyover and joins the infamous A406, the movement is down again. But John is nearly home now.

            A light drizzle falls from the skies. John looks at the tiny drops splattered on his windscreen, then up to the heavens. There aren’t any dark grey clouds. Must be just a passing shower. The drizzle continues to fall, but the volume is so light that John is confused. Should he turn on his wipers or should he ignore the minuscule drops of rain that are not even obscuring his view? It is a question that requires some serious thought. He doesn’t want to seem like one of those idiots who leaves their indicators on when they have no intention of turning. Or when they leave their headlights on but during the brightest part of the afternoon.

            A few moments of intense thought and John decides that he will live with the drops. He looks about his person and sees another driver seemingly in the same dilemma. The old man scrunches up his face and comes to the same conclusion as John. Forget it.

            As John joins onto the High Road a few minutes later, the current batch of classic songs ends and he switches over to talk radio. A station where people only talk about different subjects, hence the clever name.

            ‘…and the English government is doing the right thing’ a young female voice is saying, ‘we as a leader in human rights, and humanity for that matter, need to be an example to the rest of the world. We shouldn’t shut our doors to the abused people of the world. If they want to come to this country to escape the hardships of their own countries, then they should be allowed to. It will only make our country a more diverse place to live with culture and tolerance. All of these people that oppose immigration are just being selfish. They want to keep this country for their own. We should instead embrace others. And they will love us the more for it.’

            ‘A well said piece, thank you Trish…’

            ‘Well said? That woman is talking absolute RUBBISH! WHERE DOES SHE GET OFF TRYING TO OPEN THE BORDERS WHEN EVERY GENERATION BEFORE OURS HAS TRIED TO KEEP THIS KINGDOM? BLOODY WOMEN!’ John unloads at the radio. He punches at the radio with his left hand and manages to crack the LCD screen, but the radio keeps playing.

            ‘I actually agree with the last caller. We as a nation need to make tolerance our number one aim if we are to have any effect on unifying the different peoples of the world. How lucky are we that we can start this process in our own home’ the radio host says leaving John staring open mouthed the radio with a bruise forming on his fist. This time a well placed finger copes with the task of turning off the radio before someone is killed. John can feel the vein in his forehead pumping away.

            How can that woman say those stupid things when the only reason of the obvious downfall of this country is because of the huge levels of immigration into the country? Having a few Indian restaurants Sushi bars is one things, but letting all kinds of Kosovo’s and Kazakhstanian’s into the country so they can harass our women is another thing. We’ve become too free. Now everyone is coming to take their free cut. Bloody ignorant.

John drives up the High Road until he reaches Seven Kings British Rail station. He manoeuvres around the roundabout and turns into the residential area just off the High Road. The road becomes very narrow here with cars parked on both sides of the road. The houses are simply rows of identical terraced housing opposite each other. Three up, two down as the old adage explains quite accurately.

            A car is approaching in the opposing direction so John pulls into a gap between the parked cars so that he can pass. But the other car does the same.           

            ‘Oh come on Granddad’ John calls out. ‘I’m giving you space and you stop like your heart is running the engine’

            Irritably John swings his car back out into the road and accelerates aggressively past Granddad, shooting him an angry look at the same time. He doesn’t let up on the speed and he zings the car the whole way down the road, braking at the last minute before the intersection at the end of the road. A stray cat walking out into the road would’ve ended up in feline heaven before he could’ve spat out a fur ball. John navigates the final few turns to his home and he makes it. In good time too. He takes the car into the driveway, kills the engine and blows out a sigh of relief that he has arrived somewhere that his mind can rest. Home with the wife.

            Stepping out, John grabs his briefcase from the back seat and slams the door hard, a last piece of therapy.

            ‘Hi baby, I’m home’ John calls out to his wife as he steps onto the threshold of his marital home. Yvonne sticks her head out of the kitchen and greets her husband.

            ‘Go and rest, I’ll bring you some food’ she tells him. John complies and walks into the front room where he throws his briefcase onto one of the sofa’s and collapses onto another. Feet lift onto a table and he closes his eye trying to forget all of the tense action from the day.

            ‘Here we go baby, have something to eat…’Yvonne begins as she walks into the front room with a tray of snacks for her husband. But she stops. ‘John, what did I tell you about your briefcase. Don’t throw it like that again, you’ve messed up the coverings on the sofa’

            John stops mid yawn and holds his wife in his gaze. She looks back at him. He is about to retort but doesn’t have a chance as his wife continues.

            ‘And your dirty shoes on the table! What the hell is wrong with you John? Are you some kind of savage? Do you know who has to clean your dirt up when you’ve gone gallivanting around the country on business?’ Yvonne spits. ‘And where is your jacket?’

            John opens his mouth to speak but is silenced.

            ‘No actually I don’t want to hear any of your stories John. All that comes out of your mouth is rubbish excuses’

            ‘But honey, I’m sorry my baby. When you hear what happened you’ll agree I did the right thing’

            ‘The right thing? THE RIGHT THING? YOU COME HOME AND TREAT THIS PLACE LIKE A HOTEL, EXPECT ME TO BE YOUR SLAVE AND YOU TALK ABOUT THE RIGHT THING? YOU CRAZY IDIOT!’ and with that the tray of snacks goes flying at John, a cocktail sausage hitting him in the centre of the forehead. He jumps to his feet and tries his best to placate his fuming wife but he looks a bit silly with beans splattered on his cheek.

            ‘Baby please calm down, I said I’m sorry. I’ve had a bit of a rough day and I wasn’t thinking straight…please baby’

            ‘ROUGH DAY?’ Yvonne screams as she thrashes out of John’s awkward embrace. ‘I’M THE ONE WHO IS STUCK AT HOME WASHING CLOTHES, IRONING AND COOKING. AND WHO DO I DO IT FOR? STUPID YOU, THAT’S WHO. I DON’T KNOW WHY I BOTHER’ and she storms out of the room slamming the door behind her causing pictures to shake and threaten to drop.

            John looks on timidly. He sits quietly on the edge of the sofa. Hands clasped together in nervous prayer.

            God! He thinks, that woman has an anger management problem.