CHAPTER 34
“IS THERE A way around this jam?” I asked, bouncing my knees as the cab inched along the road out of London.
“Traffic’s busy at the moment, love. Workmen dug through the water main on the A40, so everyone’s using the side streets while Thames Water argues with the council about who’s going to fix it.”
Dammit, why today? What was wrong with this country and its infrastructure? Something was always breaking, and it was always somebody else’s fault.
“I’d be quicker walking,” I muttered.
“Aye, along this bit for sure,” the driver agreed. The faded badge taped to the Perspex partition behind the front seats identified him as Darryl Butterfield. “Reckon we should get out and help them dig.”
He turned the radio on, and a commentary on first the failings of the government, then th
