“I bet you even smell of strawberries,” Dylan says. I turn around and give him a wee kiss on the cheek. He’s gonna grow up to be a really nice guy one day. He’s flushed, and happy, and I look out the window—there’s a world out there, you know. One that isnae here. We shouldnae be here; I shouldnae, I should be in Paris. It’s still nice, though. Today. The sound of the engine, the motorway, just a wee band of outsiders, and I feel alright, quite liked. Sort of content.
