THE ICE ON THE WINDSCREEN

The ice on the windscreen was thick and white. I rubbed my hands together for warmth and then put the blower on.

I don’t know why I didn’t scrape it; that’s a thing people do, isn’t it? My scraper (in the bag of new car stuff) was still at home, but there was in theory, nothing stopping me getting out and using a credit card!

Instead, I switched the radio on. The FM signal crackled into life over the roar of the heater. Some chat about football. Some news.

Suddenly, it all reminded me of a long time ago; sitting in a cold car late at night with the analogue car radio and a frosted windscreen - especially at Christmas. That was how the world was twenty years ago! Flashing festive lights beyond the frozen windows, the signal of FM radio, the lukewarm air making soft circles above the vents. I was in a reverie for a moment or two: I was 22, fresh-faced and bright eyed, phoneless and brave with only a road atlas, a torch, and an impulsive desire to drive to Southampton.

Slowly, the ice crept back across the glass, revealing the pavement and the parked cars of the Twenty-First Century. Tiny dark rivers snaked their way between the white, and gradually the sheet of ice became a network of islands drifting on an ocean of cold night and clarity. I flicked on the windscreen wipers and swept the islands away for ever. It was late, and I needed to go home.