Dances with car-sharing

This morning I woke up in a bleary haze, half-way through my two-day holidays and already suffering symptoms of stress withdrawal: headache, twitchy fingers and an insatiable desire for cheap white bread, toasted. On my left hand was scrawled a note, which I could just about read—I am myopic to the tune of -10 in my worse eye—as saying “RING TOM WOLFE”.

Gosh, I thought. I couldn’t immediately remember what I’d been up to last night, but clearly I’d made great inroads into the literary world if that was the company I was now keeping. Some ten seconds later it started resolving itself into “RING TOM: NO LIFT”. As realisation dawned the phone rang: it was Tom, wondering when I was going to pick him up.

You can’t buy this sort of rarefied glamour, you know. As Gore himself was saying last night, over a whole hog roast.

This entry was posted in art, authors, body, cars, holiday, journeys, literature, occupation, person, sleep, transport. Bookmark the permalink.

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