I am the passenger

And I ride and I ride and I ride​

​

You land with, what can only be described, as aplomb in the mercifully empty passenger seat of a passing convertible.

​

Your driver, an eccentric looking middle aged man presumably called Martin, looks surprised by your arrival.

But not as much as you would expect.

Almost like he was expecting you.

​

Just as you gather the nerve to start conversing, he pulls into a layby and stops.

Martin(?) calmy removes himself from the drivers seat, turns back and throws a bunch of keys at you.

"All yours" he declares cheerfully.

"Logbook is in the glove compartment, as well as a bag of basmati rice."

​

Warmed by the milk of human kindness, you scoot across to the drivers seat, and tentatively watch as your former driver disappears over the horizon.

 

You poke your hand back into the glove compartment to check out this whole basmati situation, but instead pull out a fistful of pamphlets, leaflets and posters.