We eventually pull up outside the girlfriend’s house. We sit there for a bit. ‘No, it’s no good, I can’t see her like this,” he says, agonisedly, so H. and I exchange looks and we start back again. We pick up a hitch hiker: what the fuck are you doing? I hiss at H. as we pull over to let him in. Sorry, force of habit, he says, grimacing. The hitch hiker is Dutch, polite, scraggly and after listening to the berserk chimneys coming from the front seat he says that here will do thanks. We are halfway across Chiswick Bridge.