It’s raining outside. Heavy splatter crashes into the windscreen, making me feel cosy in our cocoon – but it's scant consolation. I run gloved hands along the steering wheel and stretch, before letting the upholstery take my weight. The engine purrs idly in interminable stasis - I’m going nowhere.

Image and reality; style over substance. Marketing snapshots flitter through my mind, the disconnect punching me in the guts. Since I was a boy I’ve been drip-fed…the Zen-like calm of the executive in his Jag, the urban chiquitas and cool cats in their sporty little numbers, and the bohemian couple off-road, the wind blowing in their hair. But no-one prepares you for this - being a quarter of a mile outside Ikea on a Sunday, and going fucking nowhere. And all she wanted was a lampshade. I should’ve said no. I turn to her, acknowledging our uncomfortable silence, waves of hate emanating off me.

Haha! I hear you chuckle, but it ain’t funny no more. How come we all just take this? Where’s the revolution..? People riot in the Middle East and dictators fall. Here we have a vote but we’re basically mute. We’re a nation o’ Walter Mitty’s…turned into marshmallows by pop and porn. Oh thank fuck, I can see an opening up ahead…

“Hey,” I say softly, putting a hand on her knee, “what colour shade do you want? And we should check out the beds too…I hear their beds are really something.” I turn back and smile warmly as I move into third gear, excited by the wonderful world of Ikea.