And he carries on not saying anything more for a while. In desperation I resort to remarking on things I see out the window. “Ooh look,” I try, “cows.” “Yes.” “Do you reckon they’re Friesians?” At last, he risks turning his head, if only to check out the cattle. “Aren’t Friesians the black and white ones?” “Maybe. So what are the big beige ones?” “Jerseys?” “So what about the brown shaggy ones then?” “Steaks,” says Jonathan. Which makes me laugh. Which makes him laugh. “Are you really,” he asks, “going to make small talk about cows for”—he checks the clock on the dashboard—“the next four
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