14 MARCH 1992, Page 37


Mid-forties, smart overnight bag, Collar with a touch of blood on it, Face I don't really look at.

His payment is to relax at My driving, cuss the road-up cones, Reach with questions I can duck: All with the undertow that this Is not what he's used to.

And there should be a reach back. 'So you're bound for Leicester?' I should ask, but my blithe car Has gone heavy and I too don't Want the load of answer.

Two sorts of failure.

But when I've dropped him I start singing idiot songs At the top of my voice.

Brian Waltham