5:30am.
So there I am in the car, exhausted, driving the 25 miles to Cambridge for an early train to Hitchin for the replacement bus to Welwyn, knowing that after the long, ghastly trip to London I’ll work 9 hours then face the same trip home, hoping our move back to the smoke goes smoothly, yawning, holding the wheel to stay awake, wondering if I have time to take a detour via the garage for a coffee, and then...
“Layla” by Eric Clapton comes on the radio. The moment I hear that first soaring riff I’m 16: on my paper-round, on some cobbled lane high above a dark little town, looking out through my rain-prickled hood, watching blazing squares of light begin to bloom among hill-shades and dark street-shapes, promising myself as I blow ice-bitten fingers and shift that heavy bag of papers bearing dense, solid 1983 news from one shoulder to the other that one day, one day, I won’t be here...
I turn Layla up full, streak along the A14 singing, wiping away tears, laughing. I am who I am, you are who you are.
Some things never change...
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