The rickshaws are identical, a whole digitally controlled fleet emerging from some backstreet storage bay. She wonders if this is theft or taking without consent, or whether the relevant law is old and agricultural, some suborning of the affections of cows. The laws of this nation are still occasionally very ancient, pressed into new service just as the Worshipful Company of Fan Makers moved to admit the makers of aeroplane engines. It feels as if she is absconding with a pod of domesticated dolphins, or being carried off by them. Each rickshaw is a single electrical cycle at the front joined to a severely romantic black passenger compartment large enough for two people to snuggle at the back. The folding rain cover reminds her, as always, of a Victorian perambulator or a businessman’s umbrella gone rogue: when you close the thing entirely, the rickshaw swallows you. It’s a modern innovation, to keep your lover’s expensive designer shoes dry in the rain.