Customarily Sunday is devoted to a drive about the countryside. We have unwittingly adopted the well-known preoccupation of the elderly. Though rainy weather is not an encouragement, neither does a splatter impede the constitutional endeavour. In any event, for me the imperative is simply being behind the wheel, streaming along the smooth open highways, privately relishing the click of the mechanics, the squish of the parallel tires upon the shiny black road, and the interior impression of the radio, windshield wipers and multiple other operative functions illustrated on the dashboard.

In part, no doubt, the weekly custom is an alleviation of whatever containment obstructs activity. Naturally the explorative exercise affords a lift from domestic routine. Seldom does the profit of the outing exceed a brief acknowledgment. Its functional alignment with a motor vehicle rather inhibits any artistic amplification; yet, as I say, personally the mere pleasure of driving a smooth vehicle is sufficient. Admittedly it is a modest achievement but it nonetheless gratifies me that I so happily confine my leisurely employment to one paradigm only.