Friday, 24 March 2017
Driving in the English countryside somewhere outside of Hampshire, in an Aston Martin, alone. I’m late to my flight and need to leave the country.
There’s some sort of terrorist act in progress, and the freeways are jammed. I am guided by a futuristic version of Maps, taking me on backroads to the airport.
I weave along winding roads, watching the storm-clouds break against the countryside, as I take detour after detour, changing lanes, going around traffic, racing the clock, wondering: will I arrive in time?