At some point during the late Summer of 2010, I was off to a hack-day about 300 miles north of home.  At 05:00 in pitch-black Eastbourne, I set off alone in my 1994 Mk3 1.1 litre Ford Fiesta, for the 5 hour drive.  I stopped a couple of times on the way up, then slipped on to the M6 Toll road.

I drove at 70mph on the dot (the car would start to shake if I went any faster).   The stereo was playing Sigur Ros’ “Hoppipolla”, and I turned it up to fill the cockpit.  The sun was rising, filling an otherwise featureless scene ahead with shocking yellows, oranges and pinks – the clouds inked in a grey-indigo throughout the sky.  My little chariot and I were the only vehicle on the road, riding in the central one of the five empty lanes stretching out before me.

If they made a movie of my life, that would be the scene behind the credits.  If there was ever a time in my life when I was able to truly sit back and take stock of everything I had achieved – all of the things which had combined to produce that moment – that was it.  The toll-booth was at the far end of the road.  The five pounds I threw in the basket was, and is to this day, the best five pounds I have ever spent.