Why am I the last person on the planet to hear the brilliance that is Leona Lewis? Because blasted Terry Wogan only started playing "Run" this week, during my morning drive to work, that's why. I love Wake-up to Wogan, described by Terry's producer as "food and filth." He's not wrong there. Terry starts drivelling on at 7.31am weekday mornings, half an hour into my journey down the M1, and finishes off two hours later long after I've arrived, parked up, and started on my second cup of tea of the day. Sometimes his Janet and John story is so outrageous I have to pull into the first lane to avoid a fast lane shunt because I'm laughing so much. Then there's the "poet laureate Andrew Motion" submitting his latest three line epic by email, or Barnsley Chop wooing the traffic totty with his unfinishable poems, usually starting something like this, "Oh lovely Lynne you have me in bits, I'd really like..." Chuffer Dandridge, the retired Shakespearean actooor manager invariably emails in with his latest attempt to relaunch a failed career. All interspersed with Terry chomping on snorkers and the latest provender sent in by enchanted listeners.
And each morning this week, driving through freezing fog and bitterly cold driving conditions, I've listened to Run. I looked up the lyrics tonight, and thought of you. So far from home, working in a war zone, having the shit bombed out of you. Sometimes it really is harder to be here not there, driving in and out to work and not knowing if you survived the night.