urbanism

Have you ever noticed the creeping infestation of metal utility boxes colonising Britain’s pavements? Officially, they house all manner of mysterious infrastructure – cables, pipes, the dreams of long-forgotten transport ministers. Unofficially? Well, it turns out some of them are hiding an altogether more interesting secret.

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Each spring, as the frost thaws, Britain’s roads reveal their battle scars. Potholes are back in the headlines, a seasonal spectacle of cracked asphalt and political posturing. This isn’t just an annual grumble - it’s a worsening crisis. Roads are crumbling under the weight of ever-larger vehicles, and while councils scramble to patch the damage, the holes reappear faster than they can be filled.

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The urban car is about as well-suited to the modern metropolis as a hippopotamus to a studio flat. Summer streets sag under its weight, our air thickens with its exhalations of nitrogen oxides and soot, and all the while, the creature demands more - more space to move, more space to rest. The sheer spatial absurdity of it: Each steel-and-glass sarcophagus idling for hours, occupying far more square footage than the bodies it transports. And yet, bizarrely, we persist.

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The true cost of car dependency is eye-watering. Research from Sweden puts the lifetime cost of car ownership at nearly £500,000 - of which a staggering 41% is shouldered by society. From air pollution to road deaths, congestion to climate emissions, the damage caused by our car-first culture extends far beyond individual drivers.

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At this point, you could set your watch by it: Another International Women’s Day has rolled around, and we are reminded that while women can allegedly have it all, we still can’t have a cycle lane that doesn’t abruptly vanish into multiple lanes of fast-moving traffic.

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