Throughout the journey home, Wilson incessantly hummed, whistled or sang the Bob Dylan song, 'Spanish Harlem Incident' — you might be able to imagine how annoying that was. No, more annoying than that.
It didn't help that he knew only two lines of the lyrics, and had at best a tenuous grasp of the tune. He apologised, but said he couldn't help it as the song was just stuck firmly in his head.
His singing was eventually replaced by his snoring as we passed through Crowborough — only about nine miles from Uckfield, so the relief, though welcome, was short-lived.
We finally got home quite late. Everyone else had gone to bed so I lifted Wilson out of the passenger seat, carried him into the house and popped him into his tumble-dryer for the night…
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