I was at a petrol station somewhere on the motorway back to Calais.
I was filling up on coffee having filled up the bike on petrol. It rested outside in the sun, its engine making the odd clicking sound as it cooled down. It was bored, it had dined finely on Alpine passes and now could only graze on dull autoroutes.
A woman walked by in flip-flops. There was something on the side of one foot. I looked more closely. It was a tattoo. It was a tattoo of the word Danielle.
I frowned. She had the name Danielle tattooed on the side of her foot. Her name? Her child's name? Her partner's name? Her foot's name? Did she have another name for her other foot?
Cursing the ghastliness of the moronic inferno that governs much of modern life, I hopped on the bike, fired it up, and took off down the motorway to be alone again with my thoughts.
One of them was maybe having a Suzuki Sebastian tattoo across my belly button.
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