Narrated By Campbell Scott

We were somewhere around Chertsey, near the interchange for the M25, when the paracetamol began to take hold. I remember saying something like “my head feels a lot clearer; maybe I should drive…” And suddenly the sky was full of pigeons, flying in neat formation. “Rats with wings,” muttered my solicitor through clenched teeth.

Then suddenly it all went quiet. The Beach Boys CD we had been listening to had finished so I took it out and replaced it with The Monkees.

I reached down to put the painkillers away. We had a fully stocked first aid kit under the passenger seat that contained, amongst other things, two dozen paracetamol, a dozen Ibuprofen, a tube of savlon, bandages and safety scissors, and various sizes and shapes of band aids. We also had a two litre bottle of Irn Bru, another of Tizer, two multipacks of Wotsits and a saltshaker half full of salt, in case we passed a chip shop on the way.

“I checked on the hotel website. The check in desk is open all day.”

“No hurry then,” I said, opening a packet of wotsits.

“Absolutely. This should be a nice quiet weekend. Absolutely no excitement whatsoever.”

And it was.

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