# data.attributes.body.value
Beyond doubt, the guy was furious; hideously, brutally cross and capable of great violence - a fully grown male filled with the same stupid rage and uncontainable spite as a playground bully of 10.

I feared for the other man - this could turn nasty, and who knew what that bully might do? And just as I thought the whole thing would blow up and all hell would be released, all was saved. Someone else came along, oozing polite consideration and restraint and, gliding serenely through the simmering situation, dissipated the danger.

And no one had got out of their car or exchanged a word.

The whole drama had been mute but for the limited vocal expression afforded the drivers by their engines. The bully had doubtless snarled and grunted at the wheel of his car, but the distance and the slanting light made it impossible for mere facial expressions to communicate to the poor victim in front of him the full force of his fury.

He hadn't rammed the guy, he hadn't sounded his horn or screamed out of the window as I watched their drama play out, but he had very effectively signalled that he was, as far as he was concerned, the big dog and quite happy to kill the little dog, if only to send a message to others that he commanded respect.

In turn, the guy in front had signalled his response with equal clarity. A car doesn't have a tail, but I saw his car with one jammed firmly between its back legs. A car can't hunch its shoulders and cower, but this one did, making small, cramped movements, anxious, self-conscious little stops approaching a roundabout, and nervous, tentative glances into the oncoming stream of traffic.

It wasn't the actual cars that made this story: the bully was in a bland, middle-of-the-road hatchback - a Honda, I think - and the victim, yes, was in a smaller car, but a Peugeot 207, so, not a whole lot smaller, really.

It wasn't their scale or visual style that sent these messages, it was the way they were driven - their body language. And watching, I wondered why it had never happened: car ballet. I'm not exactly a great patron of the arts - I live in Ross-on-Wye and restore old Land Rovers - but watching the complex communication between these two drivers playing out their delicate battle, I wanted to see more, to see a further exploration of what is an incredibly expressive medium.

There were no flourishing moves, no spin turns, J-turns or stunt driving. Like micro-expressions, the smaller, seemingly insignificant, tiny moves are what reveals someone's thoughts, messages and intentions. Something about the way a car draws to a stop, positions itself near the centre or the side, turns quickly or slowly, accelerates or slows forcefully; all of these things are actions that can be done in a purely robotic, automated fashion, or with soul and meaning. And I think most of the time they are done with soul and meaning. We are all performers.

It will, of course, need a stage, this new auto-ballet company of mine, but there already is one ready - we drive on it daily. The performances could be played out in context, and for an audience already involved. I would love it if at some point in my commute to London, a ballet about love, loss or rivalry were to be played out on the M4 by three Astras and a pair of Clios doing nothing illegal or dangerous, just driving with the traffic.

The local radio station could arm the audience with a bit of back story, like reading the programme at a play, and the tiniest and most subtle of moves would convey the most tremendous scope of emotions and meanings. To see the lead, maybe a Smart Coupe playing a lovelorn swan, spurned by the object of her passion - a handsome but stupid Monaro - pursued off the M4 and down the A329M to Bracknell by the dark and brooding moorhens, played by two guys in grey Astras, would be a truly tremendous thing with which to start your day.

The players wouldn't have to be paid - they could perform the piece on their daily commute.

I'm also going to devise a solo piece - I think it will be about a returning sailor finding his wife run off with a friend and his home rented to a family of bakers - and perform it myself. I shall insert a lengthy, quite moving section as the sailor reflects over his years at sea and the gulf this has put in place between his life on land and the life at sea that he has chosen over it. And I shall communicate the anger, sadness and regret through expressive driving.

Bear with me if you see me: this might take a bit of polishing to get right. But it's going to be wonderful.

# data.attributes.body.processed
Beyond doubt, the guy was furious; hideously, brutally cross and capable of great violence - a fully grown male filled with the same stupid rage and uncontainable spite as a playground bully of 10.

I feared for the other man - this could turn nasty, and who knew what that bully might do? And just as I thought the whole thing would blow up and all hell would be released, all was saved. Someone else came along, oozing polite consideration and restraint and, gliding serenely through the simmering situation, dissipated the danger.

And no one had got out of their car or exchanged a word.

The whole drama had been mute but for the limited vocal expression afforded the drivers by their engines. The bully had doubtless snarled and grunted at the wheel of his car, but the distance and the slanting light made it impossible for mere facial expressions to communicate to the poor victim in front of him the full force of his fury.

He hadn't rammed the guy, he hadn't sounded his horn or screamed out of the window as I watched their drama play out, but he had very effectively signalled that he was, as far as he was concerned, the big dog and quite happy to kill the little dog, if only to send a message to others that he commanded respect.

In turn, the guy in front had signalled his response with equal clarity. A car doesn't have a tail, but I saw his car with one jammed firmly between its back legs. A car can't hunch its shoulders and cower, but this one did, making small, cramped movements, anxious, self-conscious little stops approaching a roundabout, and nervous, tentative glances into the oncoming stream of traffic.

It wasn't the actual cars that made this story: the bully was in a bland, middle-of-the-road hatchback - a Honda, I think - and the victim, yes, was in a smaller car, but a Peugeot 207, so, not a whole lot smaller, really.

It wasn't their scale or visual style that sent these messages, it was the way they were driven - their body language. And watching, I wondered why it had never happened: car ballet. I'm not exactly a great patron of the arts - I live in Ross-on-Wye and restore old Land Rovers - but watching the complex communication between these two drivers playing out their delicate battle, I wanted to see more, to see a further exploration of what is an incredibly expressive medium.

There were no flourishing moves, no spin turns, J-turns or stunt driving. Like micro-expressions, the smaller, seemingly insignificant, tiny moves are what reveals someone's thoughts, messages and intentions. Something about the way a car draws to a stop, positions itself near the centre or the side, turns quickly or slowly, accelerates or slows forcefully; all of these things are actions that can be done in a purely robotic, automated fashion, or with soul and meaning. And I think most of the time they are done with soul and meaning. We are all performers.

It will, of course, need a stage, this new auto-ballet company of mine, but there already is one ready - we drive on it daily. The performances could be played out in context, and for an audience already involved. I would love it if at some point in my commute to London, a ballet about love, loss or rivalry were to be played out on the M4 by three Astras and a pair of Clios doing nothing illegal or dangerous, just driving with the traffic.

The local radio station could arm the audience with a bit of back story, like reading the programme at a play, and the tiniest and most subtle of moves would convey the most tremendous scope of emotions and meanings. To see the lead, maybe a Smart Coupe playing a lovelorn swan, spurned by the object of her passion - a handsome but stupid Monaro - pursued off the M4 and down the A329M to Bracknell by the dark and brooding moorhens, played by two guys in grey Astras, would be a truly tremendous thing with which to start your day.

The players wouldn't have to be paid - they could perform the piece on their daily commute.

I'm also going to devise a solo piece - I think it will be about a returning sailor finding his wife run off with a friend and his home rented to a family of bakers - and perform it myself. I shall insert a lengthy, quite moving section as the sailor reflects over his years at sea and the gulf this has put in place between his life on land and the life at sea that he has chosen over it. And I shall communicate the anger, sadness and regret through expressive driving.

Bear with me if you see me: this might take a bit of polishing to get right. But it's going to be wonderful.

# data.attributes.body.summary
The way we drive gives Richard insight into the human condition...