I’ve spent the past couple of weekends camping in the middle of a roundabout. You know the one just next to Nando’s and the slip road. Nobody knows. Nor can they. Just me, a few bevvys and the hawthorns bro. This weekend I might get a bargain banquet for two and do a food review in there. Just think, special fried rice under the stars. Good for the soul. Next Friday night I’m gonna risk a trip to the motorway services just outside town, you know the fancy eco one with a farm shop and all that. Gonna see how long I can live there without anyone noticing. Breakfasts northbound, dinners south. Stealth washing in the bogs and tinnies behind the charge points. Who knows, I might even go mad and order a Domino’s to the duck pond. You see, people think you need to go somewhere to disappear. To like a lake or mountain or whatever. But from here inside the wild roses, the whole motorway sounds like it’s breathing. And I can’t hear a thing, bro. Actual nothing.

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Simon Buckley is a Glasgow-based writer and visual artist. His work is exhibited and published internationally by galleries and museums. His fiction is forthcoming with The Los Angeles Review, Bending Genres, BULL, Table Salt Press and Quaint Literary, and has appeared in MAP Magazine.