Sunday, 30 August 2009

I took another look around the truck. The fat Mexican man next to me looked at me sadly. We hit a rut, and a wobble ascended his body, shaking his chins and his moustache, wobbling his nose.

"When do we stop?" I asked him.

He shrugged. It was no good, he clearly didn't speak English. At first, I had rather enjoyed my attempts to teach it to him, but after 4 days in the truck, I was losing my patience. 5 days ago, I got on a bus, seeming going to Tesco. Now I was in a truck, sneaking across the border from Mexico to the US. I don't know how these things keep happening to me.

I settled down on a box of burritos. I didn't know how I'd gotten here, but I knew panicking wouldn't get me home.

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