linking the quadrants around the peninsula where I live. You know them when you wander out there away from the houses, the long misty stretch where the fields flood, the 4am ring-road drag track for bikers and their lonely howls, the asphalt lanes and dimpled barriers and litter caught in the bare trees. I feel like I know them too well, these tin can arteries, speeding out on my messages. I’d like the council to go further, ban cars from the whole city, force us onto the bikes. Then I can work on my squall grimace, teeth clamped, eyes a-fire like Ahab’s as I peddle out for a croissant and a cup of joe. But a little part of me will miss the screen out onto the highway, the lines sliding into the fog.