I live on a road without a name, and every day I cycle to work past pebbledash houses. Perhaps their countenance, by way of shorter beams and brighter windows, becomes less severe along the way - perhaps there is even an improvement in their outlook - but I easily imagine all the same that they extend to infinity without witnessing anything more remarkable than themselves. Then I stop at the petrol station to buy my sandwich, and as usual the Indian woman there smiles at me and says: "Any petrol?" and as usual I don't say anything, but point to the helmet on my head. And then, as I cycle away, I reflect that this must be a joke of some kind, although I still don't see the humour of it. It's autumn, anyway: this is my life, I reflect, my very real life. Yet is there anything in it that one could tell one's children about? Wouldn't they, even as I started to describe these things, find themselves looking about distractedly for something else?