I am late leaving the shops. As I walk slowly up the rotunda-style stairs to the car park, I realise how late I am. I fumble for my keys at the top of the stairs and finally find the right one.
The car is on the floor I enter the car park on and as I cross the open deck, I feel the bottle of perfume in my pocket.
“The costliest perfume in the world,” the advert said. I open the car door and get in, settling down and start the engine. It’s my Dad’s car of course. At seventeen, I’m not going to have my own for a few years I realise, as I first reverse and then make my way across the deck to the down ramp. Continue reading