A few years back I walked out of my front door very early in the morning to go to work and watched sleepily as a large car endlessly reversed, went forward, reversed, then went forward, trying to escape a wrong turn down the driveway.
It was an engrossing spectacle: urgently and skilfully done, but also expressive of some kind of epic, cinematic impatience. Eventually I went to squeeze past. At which point a striking image loomed against the steamed-up window: a face, instantly recognisable as belonging to the celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay, shouting what was clearly the word ?****?, caught in the glow of the streetlights at 5.30am in the privacy of his own car.
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