Darn Sarf - Part I

I'd gotten into work at seven, after making sure the lads had enough food to last for the weekend. I'd hardly seen Colin all week, so I didn't make any provisions for him. He can look after himself. I left a twenty pound note in an envelope marked Andrew (the envelope, not the twenty pound note) as out of the three of them, I think I can count on him the most not to rush out of the front door when armored with a twenty and spend it immediately on frivolities. I wrote 'For Emergencies' on the envelope as well, and underlined it three times. Somehow, I can quite easily imagine at least one emergency arising over the weekend that will necessitate the spending of exactly £20.

Peter Handyman arrived at work around half eight so I gave him enough time for his first cup of coffee to take effect then cleared it with him that I was okay to leave at three as I was on my way down south for the weekend. I felt oddly nervous about asking him as despite him not being as fierce (at least to me) as the reputation that preceded him he still can be a little unpredictable. However he needs me in his good books at the moment as my new project starts on Monday and I have a week of intense data analysis to soldier through before my fortnight off and our trip to Germany. So he nodded and confirmed that would be okay, then asked if I was going anywhere nice. When I mentioned Southampton he guffawed and added: no, then. I said: Why, have you been? To which he nodded, then gave his opinion it was a pi$$-hole. Hey ho.

The day moved with predictable sloth-like swiftness. I remembered my resolution of joining the Friday lunchtime pub-throng but just was not in the mood (as I am still not drinking at present, plus I wasn't asked, anyway) so I didn't. Eventually I reached three o'clock without going completely ga-ga, grabbed my coat, ignored a couple of "on a half day, Bryn?" quips (which I think were made only half in jest) and left. Filled up the Focus's tank and was on my way down the M42.

My journey was all motorways because I like motorways. My dad refused to drive on motorways, making all our extended journeys - especially the ones to our bi-annual English sea-side holidays, loathsome and brain-bu66eringly tortuous. This meant that our holidays began at the bizarre time of 3am (the only day in the year I was ever aware that the powers that be had added another three o'clock to the clock) when me and Colin were wrenched screaming from our lovely warm beds and thrust into a freezing cold car. Sometimes it was fun watching the day warm up as we discovered tiny places that we'd never driven through before (although we were never allowed to explore them fully as dad refused to stop the car unless it was for petrol. And yes, that included toilet breaks. Woe was placed upon you should you express a need to relieve the pressure upon either your bladders or colons; and if you ever did you were told that you should have gone before the journey had commenced (which we had anyway). I don't think anything brought me and my brother closer together than those final hours sat in the back-seat of my father's Vauxhall Nova on our way to holiday, eying each others agony as we struggled to keep our kidneys from exploding or our anuses from prolapsing. Then would come the added pain when we finally reached our destination (usually a caravan) and we were actually allowed to whip out our knobs and vent high-pressure urine into the plastic toilet.

Only one person failed once, and it was me, and the punishment I received for colouring the crotch and entire upper part of my jeans a darker shade of blue was sadly memorable.

So I've always been a keen supporter and utiliser of the arteries of the UK's motorway system. To get to Southampton it was laughably simple. M42 to the M40 to the M4 to Southampton. I'd left early in the hope of missing the traffic around Birmingham and was largely successful, aside from one ten minute spell. I made expected progress until I got to the Reading region of the M4 when I experienced my one real snarl-up as millions of disparaged office-workers quit the Slough/Reading/Leatherhead area as quickly as feasibly all at the same time. I'd told Sarah I'd try and be at hers before seven, which began to look a tad unlikely, but eventually the traffic clog inexplicably cleared and I was bombing back down south.

Once I was off the M4 I seemed immediately to be in Southampton, although there seemed no sense I was anyway near the coast. Sarah had given me scant directions to hers - she said just follow the signs for St Mary's Stadium until you reach it then follow the signs to Portsmouth, turn left at Pizza Hut then it's your second right. This proved more difficult than it should have done and I came across Sarah's road purely by luck.

I hadn't done bad at all, as it was barely ten past seven. I knocked on Sarah's door, which opened with Sarah standing behind it. She made a huge show of being delighted to see me, reaching forwards with a eye-scorching smile and kissing me on lips. I can't remember that last time a woman kissed me on the lips - how sad is that?

She ushered me in and took my coat and told me Ruth was at her sisters and that dinner would be twenty minutes. I offered to help but she told me that wouldn't be necessary and that I could help myself to wine, which (chucking aside my Lent prohibition) I did.

I shall continue this tomorrow. For reasons which may become clear.