We drove through the countryside to pay a visit, listening to Pink Floyd and trying not to talk or even think about money. The car badly needed a wash and the tyres needed air. We drove past gigantic empty barns and emaciated cows, past dead trees and small rows of terraces stained with wet. Four-by-fours drifted leisurely across the road and turned off without indicating. Convertibles, tops down, cruised along in the middle, their occupants wearing huge sunglasses against the sharp winter sun. It was spring. In the back seat, our toddler son sang along to something. We counted England flags as we went; whoever spotted the most by the time we arrived would win.