cradling

Music On the restorative power of. After a fairly stressful day at work, I jumped in the back of a taxi (which is about as cheap as getting a bus in Liverpool if you're going the distance I do on a Sunday). After giving my destination, I sat well back cradling the bottle of milk I'd bought from the shop. As I watched the streets pass by in the darkness outside the window, the driver turned on his cd player and gradually, quietly at first then louder, the strains of a gospel version of Swing Low Sweet Chariot seeped into the edges of the inside of the taxi. The baritone, as deep and soulful as a Willard White, so it might as well have been him sang, "Swing low, sweet chariot, Comin' for to carry me home; Swing low, sweet chariot, Comin' for to carry me home" and I felt an abundant sense of calm as the vehicle cruised along the empty roads and empty darkness of Princes Avenue. I was going home.