The M1 McDonalds Girl and the Most Suitable Bloke (1/7) By Andy Bilton

(1/7), (2/7), (3/7), (4/7), (5/7), (6/7), (7/7),

So I'm heading home. Heading north. Eighty, on the M1, just south of Sheffield. Pissing it down. That horizontal stuff that totally obscures your view, your only safe option being to get in to the inside lane and follow the red cat's eyes. Not ideal weather conditions for a must-get-there-quicker sort of situation such as this. I should slow down really but Helen's already been on the mobile twice asking me where I am, how far from home am I, what time will I be back by, and I've thought of switching the phone off and telling her the battery went dead but she'd only check and then the shit would really hit the fan.

I've got Kasabian, loud, on the stereo trying in vain to keep me awake. Haven't had a dose of Kasabian since a week last Wednesday when Helen was at bingo with her mam. That was a good night. Six cans of loopy juice and three hours of Kasabian, Jimi Hendrix, Talking Heads and The Manics and all of it fucking loud. I hear a muffled beep that sweeps past my window. Some cunt in a five series B.M., overtaking and my heart leaps, my throat tightening as I realise I've been dosing and have drifted in to the middle lane and my speed's dropped to sixty.

This is getting fucking dangerous, I tell myself as I press the button to lower the window and let some fresh air in, despite the downpour. I move back over to the inside lane, checking my blind spot and indicating first though there's not a headlight to be seen in my rear-view.

After a couple of miles, my heart slows down to an acceptable rate and I stop feeling sick and my right shoulder starts to get all wet and cold, the rain soaking through my fleece and so I close the window and turn up the heater. The Kasabian disc stops and Classic FM cuts in on the radio and I curse myself for not re-tuning the thing since last time she borrowed the car and I don't really want to take my eyes off the road to change the disc or scan for a different station (they'll all probably have shit on this time on a Sunday night anyway).

So I press the off button and extinguish the orange glow that emanates from the stereo.

I clock another five miles before the heat in the car starts to make my eyelids feel heavy and I think of opening the window again, but then feel the sogginess of my fleece and decide things aren't that bad. So I just turn the heater dial to half blue, half red and turn the blower up to mark three and open the vents, pointing them directly at my face. But it does no good, because by the time the LCD display on the dashboard has changed from ten thirty nine to ten forty, my eyelids are starting to close again.

"This is no fucking good," I say, "I'm gonna have to stop." Justifying my imminent actions to no-one present but glancing at the mobile phone that is lying on the passenger seat with its lurid green display face up, staring at me, leering at me. I turn it over.

Continued...Next Page (2/7)

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