Night driving. The road stretches forward and the sky reflects the glow of road signs and streetlamps. I have that CD, the one with sounds from the eighties. The Damned sing In Dulce Decorum, Glen Frey tells of Smuggler's Blues and Mike and the Mechanics transport me Par Avion to the Florida Keys. My glasses become wayfarers, my polo shirt and jeans a loose fitting pastel suit, socks are (of course) not permitted and my trainers are now espadrilles. Today's unshaven complexion is tonight's designer stubble. I imagine the camera panning to a wheel as it spins on the tarmac, the engine growls and then a wide angle over the bonnet watching the lights dancing on the paintwork. These are the nights I love to drive alone. I sometimes take a wrong turn just to get a few more miles on the clock. Miami Vice definitely has a lot to answer for.