'I've come to remind you of your roots,' she says as I meet her from Truro train station. 'So that you don't become too bovine.' She's carrying her laptop as well as her weekend bag. 'Had so much work to do, that's why I didn't drive this time.' I smile smugly. 'I remember those bad old days, when I had to lug my work home with me every weekend. Not any more.' 'OK smartie.' She makes a face at me. 'You have an answer for everything since you've moved down here.' As usual she looks stunning, a smart belted trench coat over her designer jeans and a perky little wine-coloured beret on her sleek hair. I lead her to Minger, the name we've given to my old car. It's a far cry from the smart company car I once had. Minger is a little white Peugeot that used to be a police car. Since we moved it's been the 'beach' car and smells of wet dog, salt and seaweed, potato crisps and peanuts, hence its name. It's full of sand, which we return now and then to the beach, and there seems to be some kind of irrigation system going on in the boot as after a rainfall, we hear sloshing water noises every time I go around a bend.
