He gives her a sour look, then goes back to inspecting the landscape.

'I'm allowed to look at it, aren' I?'


He just wants to drink it in. He's imagined what the desert would feel like his whole life, staring at it from the darkness of the sticky cinema seats. But he got it wrong. It feels nothing like he thought it would. It's better. It's hot, and there's dust, and he's going to be sweating like a pig by the time they've gone a hundred yards, wearing this bloody waistcoat. But it's worth it.

Still, he doesn't want to look like a ponce in front of her. So he puts his heels to Concession, and wanders off in the direction he assumes they'll be going.

'Come on, then.'