Keep the footwell empty

London, United Kingdom

I am ashamed, although perhaps it is better to say horrified. There is a monster in the rear footwell of my car, a monster created by me. The space is crammed with wrappers, tumblers, cast-off chocolate bars, and empty cans of energy drink by the ton. There is even a half-eaten samosa with fungus along its edge. I did not know samosas could even grow fungi. The footwell tells a story. It is a tale of the half-dashed, crazy-timetable, eat-on-the-hoof life I clearly lead.

This reality only hit me yesterday when I had a puncture repaired in a nearby garage. The talented mechanic, who had me going in a jiffy, smiled when he saw my footwell for himself. I had simply forgotten to clear the thing before seeking out his talents.

“I thought I was the only one to do that!” he exclaimed, nodding sagely and pointing at the pile of debris that was about to flow onto the seat. “Great place for rubbish, don’t you think?” He turned, on the verge of beckoning some friends to take a look. In the far corner of the garage I could see a group of five less-than-busy mechanics rapping to a radio and looking for mischief.

Instantly I held up my arm, though smiled as this occasion demanded. “Please don’t,” I begged, instantly placing palms together in mock prayer. “I’ve a bin liner in the glove compartment. I’ll tidy up while you sort the tyre.”

As if a Father Confessor, the young man nodded, grinned, and set to work. “Don’t see too many Audis with punctures,” he commented, as with the help of pliers and a flourish he retrieved the screw that had brought me to a rapid halt on the side of a London street.

While he worked his magic, methodically I picked up the discarded debris from the footwell, placing each item gingerly into the bin liner. It was odd, maybe not-so-odd, because as I slowly filled the liner, I felt unclean, definitely guilty, and noticed that I was talking to myself. I was mumbling a repeated promise not to do the same again. The footwell was evidence of rushing, opportunity snacking and no attention to the nature of a diet. I am a hopeless dieter anyway but this was a shock even to me.

Thanks to the tyre mechanic I know I am not alone. Anyway, research has shown that 94% of people snack, one quarter because they are bored. English driving is seriously boring as so much of it is stationary. Yet there is snacking and there is snacking. Mine was clearly the worst form imaginable. In the footwell lay evidence of 19 sandwiches, 11 energy drinks, 7 caffe latte, 2 bars of fruit and nut, 4 energy slices, a handful of cherry Bakewells, plenty of crisps and nuts, as well as a samosa, in addition to the one with fungus. I added up those little labels, the ones you can barely see; 10809 calories, call it a cool 11000. Eleven thousand? That is beyond comprehension and a number I should whisper rather than declare.

With 65 calories burned for every mile walked, the footwell represented almost 170 miles of walking. That is the distance walked by the average Brit in a year. There you have it. It will take me a year to burn off my gluttony. Meanwhile there was not an item in the footwell that retrospect suggested had been essential.

Maybe it is unwise for the legislators to make eating while driving legal. Yet now, provided you drive safely, you can munch as freely as you wish. It also depends on the policemen around on the day as one woman discovered when eating a banana in a traffic jam. A nearby traffic cop saw her and reported the event. Before she knew it, the banana-eater was in Court, had been fined and her insurance premium had shot up 40%. Maybe it was just a bad day, or perhaps the policeman had a thing about bananas.

Irrespective of the food involved, chewing and glugging at the wheel do affect performance. One study showed that eating while driving makes you 44% slower while drinking makes you 22% slower. Hot coffee is supposedly the worst. The brown stains on my otherwise white shirt are living evidence of this.

And it is not just shirts. There are trousers, too. You try digging in to something crumbly at the wheel. My pet hate while driving, despite being a usual favourite, must be ice cream wrapped in layered chocolate. That is instant disaster. In go the teeth, off breaks the chocolate in tiny flakes, which end up on either lap or seat. It is difficult to be taken seriously at the next business meeting with melted chocolate on your crotch. Restrict ice cream to the parlour rather than the seat.

Yet shamefully, as I filled the bin liner, I realised the pile in the footwell was a reflection of me. It said who I was, what I liked, what I ate, how much I spent. It even said what I might have thought. It said I was so rushed I did not always have time to reflect. Smelling roses? Not a hope.

A pile in the footwell is not a good sign. It also shortens life. Fizzy drinks, especially if sugared, can age you by nearly five years. No wonder I see wrinkles in the mirror. High fat foods can knock 23 years from an existence. Even smoking only shortens life by a decade. And a burger on the move? Forget it. Not only does it ooze sauce to join the coffee on your shirt, but a single burger has been shown to shorten life by 30 minutes.

My advice? Stay inscrutable. Keep the footwell empty if you can.