Just seeing the name of the little town on the motorway sign brings on a wave of maudlin self-pity. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d be passing right by it on this route. My concentration lost, I allow the car to slow down. A van blasts its horn and passes me angrily on the inside. I return my attention to my driving and pull back into the middle lane and then the slow inner lane, and, without ever having made a conscious decision, join the slip road to leave the motorway. I glance at the dashboard clock. It’s only six-twenty. There should be plenty of time.