Each morning I slow down, lower my windows and glare at them, my disapproval palpable. I’ve been doing this for months. Coffee cup from my favourite neighbourhood café in hand, I normally listen to a podcast or the radio, singing confidently off key, as I drive to work each day. I am generally happy, though since I’m always late, there is a persistent cloud of guilt which hovers over my little car on my daily commute. But about a third of a cardboard cup of cappuccino into the commute, the fluffy grey cloud turns dark and thunderous as I succumb to my daily routine of narrow-eyed displeasure. But as far as I can see, this morning ritual has gone blithely unnoticed by the men I target my heated gaze towards. They’re busy after all.