Being left behind
The romantic, majestic shrubbery of the Western Argyll coastline slid into a more acceptable winding blurry greenery of generic countryside. The radio crackled, desperately trying to cling onto a voice, a note, an idea. The road noise lulled you into a monotone thought bubble, while the intermittent snippets of a dulled radio studio occasionally brought you back to your surroundings. A vague attempt at conversation, ‘so, no more Faslane, what’s next?’ He’s in The Navy, you see.
‘I’m going to Afghanistan.’
‘Oh right.’ ‘Shall we have the left over tortellini? It’s easy but I think the pesto is at The Furry Top phase…? Or perhaps sushi? We haven’t had sushi in so long.’