We’re somewhere around Bletchley, on the edge of Milton Keynes, when the drugs begin to take hold.
I say something like: “It’s my fault. I should never have let you drive.” Suddenly, there’s a terrible roar all around us, as my fellow traveller, catnip coursing through her furry little body, loses control of the car, which was going a hundred miles an hour towards Pinewood Studios with the top down.
Luckily, we’re hopelessly lost on a country road, so there’s not much to hit as we slide to a halt. Next to me, an airbag is gently popped by a claw. I sit there, dazed and confused, as though time’s standing still. I wonder if I’ve made the right call. I think about what made me make that call. I think about Squirrel With A Gun.
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