Frank ran as fast as he could through the mud. If one moves too slowly in this kind of mire, ones feet sink in to the ground, making things much harder. He had already lost his left shoe about 300 yards back there at the bottom of a hard gravely mound which he had leaped from.

He was now far enough from the motorway that everything was pitch black and he ran in the direction of some street lights that were perhaps half a mile ahead of him. He stopped to catch his breath and looked back in the direction he had run from. He half expected to see torches flashing, helicopters buzzing overhead, the headlights of off-road vehicles, to hear a commotion and dogs barking. But there was nothing. He decided to trudge slowly forwards. No point in wasting energy he reasoned. The sudden rush of blood inspired a giddy moment of soberness.

A shape slowly appeared, it was a church, the car-park was surrounded by hedges which separated the field Frank stood in from the town this church belonged to. He ran to the hedge and tried to scissor jump it. He landed on the left side of his face, his body slumped on the smoothly tarmacked ground. He became suddenly aware of his appearance, a drunk man of his late 30s in a pinstripe suit, shirt open, tie stuffed in the top pocket, one leg torn badly, a shoe missing, a beard (now looking rather unmaintained), a pocket full of change and broken glass, slightly malodorous with a distinctly tramp-like bouquet. At least he hadn't wet himself.

Frank realised that his only chance to travel home without looking out of place would be to abandon his car and use public transport. Public transport was the only way for the insane (criminally and otherwise), the drunk, the retarded, the disturbed, depressed, too old, too short, too fat, too poor, too thin, too smelly, and various misfits of miscellany to travel unencumbered by the unreasonable pressures of ordinary society.