"Rain's just getting worse," Albert sighed to himself, peering past squeaking wipers at the darkening sky, "and miles to go yet." Still, he thought, once I'm home I can sit down in a comfortable armchair, with a warming glass of whisky, lit by the glow of a real fire and ... "Yes, fine," he muttered, "as if'; as if wishing could turn that miserable cold flat of his into a welcoming house and home, the tatty furniture into a well-upholstered settee and armchairs with cushions. Still, he mused, better than no place to live. "So dark now," he said out loud; trying to make out the road markings ahead; he should be nearly at the junction for the motorway now- "just where am I?" A flash of lightning briefly revealed the road. Road? More like a farm track, no wonder the car was rattling so much; and sliding, labouring, wheezing up the slope. I don't remember any of this; how on earth have I ended up here and ... He was on the flat now; and the engine had died. Now the narrow track was surrounded by trees and bushes. The wind howled, the rain poured down. His jacket lay on the passenger seat and Albert scooped it up, reached into the left-hand pocket for his mobile phone. No joy; battery dead. He threw the jacket back on the seat and gazed out of the windscreen. Nothing; no lights; no sounds of life, just wind, hailstones and rain hammering soil into mud. Getting colder, he realized, and slipped into his jacket; not enough; where's my car coat? Didn't bring it with me this morning when I came to work. No good getting out and wandering along in the darkness; just get lost; and sopping wet. But we can't be far off the junction, surely? And yet when he wound the window down slightly in order to listen for traffic on the motorway there was not a hint of life anywhere. The rain was easing, but probably best to wait for daylight; sleep in the car till he could see clearly. Damn.