The A6 seemed such a fine road. 

This evening two days later I sit on the smoking area outside of the Ibis Hotel. The A6 tonight is particularly beautiful. Plastic chairs sit upturned against the drizzle. A woman walks past. I say ‘bon soir’, she blanks me, her walking stick click clacks across the concrete, making stable a frame of flesh that says otherwise. Her sluggish gait is confused by the staccato of her walking stick, counterpoint to the chordal surge of the lorries on the Peage. She moves away past the pot plants scattered randomly on the patio, a light comes on, and the pattern of the rainforest on her umbrella fuses in a a kind of Buaudrillardian syncopated post industrial dystopian vision of loveliness with the Hotel Ibis hydrangea.

Contribution from Jane: