It had happened again that morning. From where he sat, Mackintosh clad, gloved hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two, the road and trees – in fact the entire landscape outside – felt as though it were moving and his car was the only thing that could be trusted to be still. It made him feel nauseous and slightly disengaged. He wondered if it was the act of commuting that had propelled the world from day to night beneath his tyres all these years.

What happens when I retire? He wondered. What then?


Leave a Reply