The officer chalked an epidemic curve into the road, "Walk it." he demanded, and we trod the trajectory of ague and misery with unwavering concentration. Unsatisfied he marched to his vehicle, opening a door, and searching his glove compartment he returned with a neon blue plastic box.
"This comes in a hundred different varieties. More colours than light splitting on an oil spill."
And on this confession of unrivalled variegation our driver broke down in tears. The officer strolled over and lifted the driver's chin with the rugged edge of the remote control, the driver grasped it with both his hands and tears ran over his cheeks like fuses burning.
"How did you tell?" he asked sniffling.
"Thoughts of colours," the police officer sounded smugly, "of more colours than light splitting over an oil spill."
And the driver rocked forwards and backwards wailing, cradling the remote, and thought of his many parts, all of which were out of his control.