driving

We’re in his the Astra. His baby. It’s early morning somewhere in Kilburn. We’re lost. I’m map reading. I suggest we turn left. Sedley asks me why. I tell him it’s a hunch. He glares at me. He takes the map and looks at it. We turn right.

+++

We’re in the Red Renault. It’s mid afternoon. We’ve had a couple of drinks. It’s a beautiful day. On a whim, I suggest we go to Stevenage. We don’t know how to get there. We do a handbrake turn in Hyde Park. Later, at a roundabout in Hertfordshire, I pull out then get lost in my thoughts, trying to work out which way to go. A sensible family saloon car veers past, horn blaring, missing us by inches. Stevenage is a potage of roundabouts. N is still working at the checkout counter. We hang around for an age in the pedestrianised arcade. The film showing at the next door cinema is The Money Trap. There had been no hurry.

+++

We’re in a taxi in Ciudad Vieja. There’s a fierce, unspeakable tension. It’s the tension of lives on the cusp of change. I can’t stand it anymore. I get out and slam the door, leaving him behind to pay.

+++

We’re in the Astra. Crossing the border between England and Scotland. It’s mid morning. We overnighted in York with my sister. There’s a large bag of a dozen or so sample shirts in the boot. We plan to lug it round the country. We don’t know how to sell and we don’t have any appointments and we don’t really know what we’re doing, but we’ve got a kind of plan. There are plain shirts and fancy shirts. They all have large collars, cuffs and buttons. Before we settled on the name Dorian Grey, we flirted with the idea of calling the company Jay Gatz. In the car there’s a selection of about a dozen tapes. They will be played inside out. But this is still just the start of our journey. We’re listening to The Smiths. Marr’s guitar whirls round the room which is this car. Outside, snowflakes fall. They rally to the music. Soon, the flakes have soared into a blizzard. The snow falls, there is nothing but white, The Smiths sing songs of childhood, and we are headed for Glasgow with nothing but hope and our big bag of shirts.

+++

We are in their new car. We criss cross Puglia in the late Summer sun. Small towns, each with their own identity. Some are menacing, others welcoming. Some medieval, others neo-classical. As we ping pong round the province, Sedley and I chat. About the things we have seen and the people we have known.