It always ends the same.
On the rare occasions when I need to take a long drive, silence will eventually envelop the inside of the car when, after a few hours, I lose my voice to the radio of my youth. It is then, in treacle fog, I am left alone with my thoughts.
I question it all: My life, my marriage, my role as mother, my stance as writer. My status within the different aspects of my world come under scrutiny inside the courtroom of my mind.
I turn the music dial louder to drown out the internal monologue and instead focus on counting down the miles until I reach my destination.