‘Pull yourself away,’ she called in that bitter chicory tongue. More annoying than taking a trip to the moon only to spin around the car park in an old panda, whizzing round on a perpetual handbrake turn while the dirty blokes dog in the steaming cars set in a circle, the panda at its centre, interminably spinning, headlights flashing, catching the odd globe of flesh, lighting up hunks of sexual butchery.