Why the keys seem sensible

I want to be fair to the default before I argue with it, because it isn't stupid and it isn't sloth. It's what a sensible person does when nobody's asked them to think about it.

The car is faster. Or it feels faster, and you've never timed it. Ten minutes on foot against three in the car, and three wins.

The weather. This is Britain. It rains, it's cold, it's dark by four in December, and the car has a roof and a heater.

You've got things to carry. The shopping, the child, the bag for work, the thing that needs returning. Legs don't have a boot.

You're tired. The day was long, and a walk at the end of it feels like one more demand.

It's not exercise anyway. A ten-minute stroll to the shop isn't going to change anything about your health, so why put yourself out for it. If you wanted to be fit you'd do something proper.

Everyone drives. The road outside the school is a queue of cars because that's how the school run is done. The lift lobby has four people in it because that's how you get to the second floor. Walking would mean being the odd one out.

The lift is right there. The stairs are through a door and round a corner and nobody uses them and you're not sure they're even unlocked.

And you'd arrive a mess. Sweaty for a meeting, or windswept, or with wet shoes. The car delivers you as you left.

There are needs under all of this. A need to get things done in a day that's already full. A need for comfort when it's wet and cold. A need to arrive presentable. A need not to spend energy you haven't got. None of these is going to be argued away and I won't try. What I'll show is that the default meets most of them badly, that the car is slower than it feels for the trips this book is about, that the walk is the thing that gives energy rather than taking it, and that the one reason on the list that's actually true, the big shop, is the one the rule makes room for.