Old car. Not vintage. Just old. Old like the day now growing old. An elongated slice of blood red sun is sinking behind a tall cityscape. I'm driving home on the same old roads. A truck overtakes me. It's closely followed by a motorbike. Soon the first raindrops hit the windscreen. Wipers on. Headlights on. Eyes heavy. Drowsy. Nodding. Snapping awake. Sleepy. Radio not working... pulling in at a neon lit roadside cafe. The odd thing is I never noticed the place before. Perhaps it's new. Or maybe it's an old place reopened. Quiet enough it is. Languidly I stir my espresso, and idly contemplate the Mozart balls on display. Chocolate ones they are. Now suddenly who should drop in but old Uncle Hermann, and on his old motorbike. A black painted backfiring machine. Needs tuning. Otherwise not in bad nick. The one small dent. We have lots to catch up on. "It's jest like the old days," he says, and then he beams me a wide and wonderful smile. .