I am driving somewhere close to Manchester when it comes over me.
‘I feel like shit, or a bad facsimile of,’ I inform my navigator, ‘I could vomit for America (a mocking breeze bothers dandelions along the ha-ha) but she’s sick near to death already and no amount of hours spent watching futile movies out of Hollywood is gonna fix that.’
There’s nothing I can do about it, I realise. So I drive back to my hotel, pick up Kafka and check out.
‘As if I could puke for America, Kafka,’ I tell him laughingly, as the plane is taking off.
