Eight o’clock on a cold and frosty Sunday morning and my boy is driving me to the NHS emergency dentist. My boy’s seven-seater Toyota Previa cost him £300 and it’s turned out to be a reliable and comfortable old bus, though ‘very thirsty’ as he puts it. He’s proud of it, and seems pleased to be of service to his old man in his hour of need, in spite of the early start.
These days the only opportunity we have to talk is like this, in the car, when he’s running me somewhere. At his home, with five kids under eight charging around, the racket and the chaos make conversation impossible. All we can do there is shout short, panic-stricken sentences to one another like soldiers on a battlefield overrun by the enemy. In his bus we can talk for a change.
The journey takes 45 minutes each way. We are heading inland from the coast.
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