Put yourself in a scene with four other people. Place yourself off to one side, able to observe the others unobtrusively. Now remove all of the audio. Cheryl is looking at her mother, mouthing the occational phrase. When she’s not using it for speech she’s using it to cannibalize her fingers. Cheryl’s mother is driving. Her eyes are obscured by dark sunglasses, but you can sense her attention scanning the setting by the subtle movements of her head presumably following the tracking of her eyes. Joe has taken up his trademark “being a good sport” pose: one hand resting on his stomach supporting the other, which in turn is cradling his chin in it’s palm. Do you ever get the feeling that someone is talking to you?

This is the way I prefer to travel. I’m in my own world, a cool breeze from the air-conditioner blowing in my face, fingers caressing my keyboard in musical world of my own. My eyes are closed. My wife is talking to her mother in the front seat. My father in law and daughter are watching a movie in the second row. Me? I’m sitting in the last row by myself. It has the least leg room of the three by far, but there’s a strange comfort to the place, scrunched up in personal bliss. My feet are crowded up under my seat, my knees at a higher elevation than my lap. My computer is elevated on my knees. My hands are right were they would be if they were in my lap, only the keyboard is in the way. I’ve got an hour to blow, so here we go!