It was late in the afternoon, on a far from typical London Saturday. Winter was mild that year, I remember, and although by 4.30 it was already good and dark, it wasn't cold. Besides, Chester had the heater on. It was broken, and you either had it on full blast or not at all. The rush of hot air was making me sleepy. I don't know if you know that feeling, when you're in a car — and it doesn't have to be a particularly car or anything — but you're drowsy, and perhaps you're not looking forward to the moment of arrival, and you feel oddly settled and happy. You feel as though you could sit there in that passenger seat for ever. It's a form of living for the present I suppose.
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