The Cerebral Catalyst

He lost the power of internal monologue somewhere between exits five and six on the clockwise section of the M25, when for the first time ever he missed Waltham Cross. Instead of the A10, there was anxiety; instead of the Lee Valley, dislocation. He was no longer at the hub of things. The concentricity that defined him and his relationship with his wife, his two-point-two kids, his friends, his outer circle of business acquaintances and his true world order had imploded. His entire emotional core was careering headlong towards the perimeter and there was nothing he could do.

So it was that Malcolm Temple-Smith found himself on the M11 wrestling with mind-body duality as Harlow approached on his left. His conscious being was behind the wheel of his Volkswagen Passat, he reflected, so it must have been him driving it. Except when he came to turn off at exit seven, the car wouldn't. It kept going straight on.

Then it dawned on him. His Passat was no longer under his control. He tried doing all the usual things: removing the key from the ignition, applying the hand brake and the steering wheel lock. No use. He slammed his foot down hard on the brake. Again. And again. Just like in the countless Hollywood runaway car scenes he'd watched from the comfort and security of his Potter's Bar semi. All to the same no avail. It'd had about as much effect as his ranting at the BBC's liberal bias. His now external inner voice objected in the strongest possible terms.

— Give me my car back. I fear I am a sex offender. Why you little shit! Arab scum. I ejaculate too soon. Why do I hate her? It's mine. Mine. Mine. I will kill Gordon Brown I swear I will. Me. Me. Me. I am afraid to die. I fear life. Help. What the...?

— Do not attempt to exit... do not attempt to exit... Remain on the motorway and continue your present course, announced the SatNav tetchily.

— Do as I say Temple-Smith or else...

— How on earth do you know who I am?

— We know the names of all the Network. Why wouldn't we?

— What network?

The SatNav fell silent.

— What network?

— ...............

There was dryness in his mouth and pounding in his chest. Temple-Smith thought hard and fast. He had long suspected they would conspire to do something like this. But in Hertfordshire? And to him? Why in God's name?

Then it hit him like a wet kipper on the back of his neck.

— Good Lord. Stansted Airport!

______________________________________
Phil Doran is a (UK) performance poet/comedian/teacher/father/writer. He has published work in Zygote in My Coffee and has also self-published a book of 60-odd short stories. More poems and fiction on www.thespaghettifaction.blogspot.com.

posted 01.28.08.

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