It is Boxing Day. My mum is driving us to her house from family in Oxford. Outside, it is more or less sleeting. Inside, I am more or less asleep with my eyes open. Lights swing by, arcing and parting in sodium-tinted shades of mustard, mint, ultraviolet, scarlet; some woman on the radio selects bossanova tracks, smooth songs crackling as we pass through high hills that disrupt the signal. In an hour or two I will be in that middle bedroom with its magic, mystic properties of bestowing upon all its guests the best rest. For now we carry on along this somatic tube of road, tarmac thrumming to keep us on the edge of wakefulness.
Another way of looking is to listen. Click the image below or here to hear.
