At war with the motorist
In December, my dear Primrose and I will be ridding our lives of our rust-bucket (our car) once and for all—we're just waiting for our kids' prepaid swimming lessons, out in the burbs, to wrap up. And I have realized, we will no longer have our metaphorical glass house. And this means, we can start throwing stones!
I am appealing to my gentlemanly readers, for moderate words of advice at this time. I fear a manic phase may be brewing, of excessive exuberance, for I have had visions of: letting down all my neighbours' car tires at night; of telling Jihadists I am bin Laden, back from the dead, and that from now on we'll be blowing up roads; of moving wheelie-bins out into the middle of the road; of leaving anything on the road that I can find; of generally becoming a pest.
Does this energy I have for such mischief need bridling? Or am I onto something profound? Have you not sensed also, that we have been raised from the womb to view smooth traffic flows as somehow sacred, to the point where we turn a blind eye to obstacles blocking footpaths or bike paths (builders' hoardings, rubbish skips, police cars, etc.), but react as though heaven is falling when confronted by something blocking a car lane? A campaign of civil disobedience, hindering the smooth flow of vehicular traffic, and generally inconveniencing our poor car-dependent relations, might at least get people questioning this dogma we seem to have received from our parents, that roads and cars are, in any sense, good. Or as I have been to be prone, am I being extremist?