The car’s new enough that I don’t have an e-tag for it yet, so I ask my son to piece together the motorway toll from the shrapnel in the ashtray. It’s a vastly premature request; the traffic begins to thicken ominously as it passes the airport, then grinds to a halt at the mouth of the tunnel. I look at the clock and groan in frustration. Just under forty minutes to pick up Dad and get him to his appointment. Should’ve given breakfast a miss and grabbed some McDonald’s on the way. “That’s a shiny dollar,” my son observes, pushing…