Man in the Mirror

I was followed to work this morning.

That is, the same car was behind me for most of the journey - not actually stalking me.

Looking in the mirror, I could see the female driver giving her male passenger a tongue lashing of epic proportions - and not in a good way.

She never stopped for the whole journey. Every time I glanced back her hands were gesticulating wildly - finger pointed accusingly about four inches from his face.

At each traffic light, I braced myself for the impact of her pink Honda Jazz on my big-ass Megane's big-ass bumper. She clearly wasn't focused on the road ahead.

She kept taking her glasses off, waving them in his general direction, then replacing them on her sharp, narrow nose, all the while keeping up the tirade of abuse.

I was fascinated by his response, which was to remain completely impassive and unresponsive. I checked the mirror again to make sure he hadn't committed suicide on the way - death being a preferable alternative to spending another second being harangued by a Professional Harpy (First Class).

Or that maybe he was one of those inflatable car buddies women carry around in their cars so as not to look like they're travelling alone.

It was only when we neared the city centre that I spotted it.

The tell-tale white cord, surreptitiously snaking up out of his collar and into his left ear - out of sight of the harrassing harridan.

He was tuning her out by tuning into his iPod.

I'm guessing it was 'Every Day I Love You Less and Less' by the Kaiser Chiefs