The old man in the passenger seat of my vehicle watches the country with deep attention, gesturing from time to time, calling the names of the places as they pass, turning his head to hawk gobs of mucous into a plastic bottle he carries with him for the purpose. He is frail and fierce, crippled from a car accident a year earlier that has reduced him physically but in no way diminished his authority and charisma. I have been elected to be his chauffeur over the next few days, which is both a responsibility and a privilege. One of his legs is almost useless. When I lift the intransigent foot into a position where he can manoeuvre himself onto his walking frame, he laughs.

No good pucken thing, he says, disowning it, along with the incontinence that fills the cabin with an ammoniac reek. You better put something, he says, indicating the spreading damp patch on the car seat, and I dig a space blanket from among my camping gear and fold it on the seat, at which he nods approval.