The Girl With The Priestly Admirer pulls a torch from the glove compartment (inaccurately named) and directs its battery-dying yellow glow at her legs. She counts hairs unsuccessfully severed sweating earlier in the bathtub over her Venus razor. In the backseat I paint myself vampish lips and shiver.

After avoiding for several hours our imperfect lips pores plastic Audrey Hepburn cigarette holders in the full-length mirror by the door and the pale pink tomatoes floating in the egg white sponge of a quiche which sticks in corrugations of crust to the sides of its glass dish, The Girl With The Priestly Admirer and I slip ducked from the door and over wet stepping stones into the road.

We decide this is almost on par with The Great Escape.