I dunno what prompted me to do so, but I was in full flight, listing the different fields I’d read. When I was done, she said, “The books of a self-taught man, a working man. We all know how they are, distressing egotistic insistent raw striking and ultimately nauseating.” “You snooty bitch.” She laughed, said, “Alas, don’t blame me, it was Virginia Woolf’s analysis of James Joyce. Are you familiar with Virginia?” “Take a wild guess.” THE VAN lurched, and Jeff said, “We’re at Keele.” We loaded the gear into the waiting car, got into coveralls. Bert would remain with the second car and Mike with the third. It was vital each car be manned safe primed. The punk got behind the wheel. Jeff beside him and me in back. As the punk ran through the gears, he said, “This is a piece of shit.” Jeff said, “Shut your mouth and drive.” He did. Twenty minutes later, we rolled into Newcastle. My adrenaline was pumping. Jeff directed the punk to park about twenty yards from the back entrance.
