The child sniffled. The woman rummaged in her handbag – small, proper, black – for a tissue. Piccadilly said, »Don't even touch him. His snotty nose is my headcold.« The woman frowned and wiped the child's nose anyway. Rolled down a window and tossed the tissue out. Piccadilly leaned hard on the horn. Someone flipped him the bird. No petrol for miles. No way forward, no way back. Piccadilly began to sing. »Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag!«
