6 May 2010
Day gives evening a proper hand-off in Southampton, in the quadrant between the new-builds and the hospital. The last workers and a few students are going home; most of the students, and some different workers, going out. Responsibility passes its time-sheet to abandon. Abandon shrugs, says, ‘Ah, what are you going to do?’ to no-one in particular, and leaves it on the back seat of the taxi.
It’s my turn not to leave work until the change of shifts outside (damn proofs; damn index; damn, damn, damn distracting call from a jobsworth at my bank). As I cross the road, a pick-up truck looms up, with spotlights hanging from its roof-rack. A girl dressed for clubbing leans out of the window and shouts, ‘Wooh!’
The pick-up truck is longer than it should be. It’s a pick-up truck front, extruded into a limousine. Is that actually a Hummer? Bloody hell.
That’s one more thing I’m never going to do, I think to myself, start a night out in a big pick-up limo. There’s a Marianne Faithfull song about a housewife who throws herself off a rooftop because she’s never driven through Paris in a white sports car. I cried when I first heard it because I thought it was about Diana. (I was already a student. I blame changing my Pill.) Of course, I’m not a housewife, and I’m not planning to throw myself off anything.
In fact, I won’t be that unhappy if I never have to ride around in one of those.