In truth: we were homeless, jobless, next to penniless, lacking in insurance, lacking in language skills, lacking true direction, driving a car that would, definitely WOULD, break down sooner or later, and flying by the seat of our pants. I had never been so happy as I was then.
Breaking dawn (down) on the M62.
Sitting on the M62, at its highest point, with flat tyres and a lack of a back-up plan, I thought our dream was over.
“It’s a good job that I bought some travel insurance for the journey, isn’t it?”
She sat there in her firmament and I sat in my old Renault with flat tyres.
“Have you been saving that bacon just for me?” I asked. “Does this mean that we can get it fixed?”
“I think so,” she replied without a hint of the smugness that I would have applied liberally.
She already had the documents out and was reading through the small-print as a squally-spit of rain loomed in from the north. It’s easy to tell directions on the M62 without the aid of the sun (which is never apparent on that particular section). The motorway runs from East to West or…
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