End of an overall rotten week.

Driver Jatt

End of an overall rotten week.

The week started off with a call from another courier outfit. A driver of theirs had broken down close to my home, and they needed their stuff taking to Nottingham asap. A favour for a fellow van. Not a bad start. Helpful, even.

Then I cannot remember the rest of the week, other than it was rather annoying. The traffic. The endless, clotting traffic. That low-grade frustration that becomes the background hum to everything.

Oh, I went to an industrial estate in Enfield that can give you the “lergy” just by looking at it. You know the type. A place that feels like it is slowly dissolving into a puddle of old oil and regret. I was in and out as fast as the paperwork allowed.

A False Dawn in Knightsbridge
Next, I found myself in Knightsbridge. The weather was decent. I had plenty of time for a walk and a mooch. Only, the parking was £10 for an hour. Just to stand still. Nah. Forget that. I looked at the fancy shops through the windscreen, did a three-point turn that probably cost me 50p in congestion charge, and left.

The Descent into Croydon (Via Hell)
A job came up taking me to Croydon. It should not be long, I thought. Parking is a little cheaper there, plus there is some decent food. A simple plan.

Then it seriously went downhill. One wrong turn. A single misjudged lane change off the South Circular. Suddenly, I was not heading for Croydon. I was being sucked into the vortex of central London. Regent Street. Oxford Circus. Through Soho at a crawl. A procession of buses, tourists, and my own rising disbelief. The satnav kept bleating “recalculating” like a distressed robot. Three hours later, I finally reached Croydon. I did not want the food anymore. I needed a serious counselling session to get over the experience. Three hours to go about eight miles. The van and I both needed a lie down in a dark room.

A Final Thought
Have a lovely weekend. Spare a thought for those around the world who cannot have a break. Mainly because the advanced world is busy debating how much butchering is too much. Such a nuanced subject, right? Makes a three-hour traffic jam seem almost quaint.

So that was the week. A helpful start, a lurgy-ridden middle, a £10 parking insult, and a finale written by the devil in a traffic control centre. On to the next one. It can only get better. Or, at this point, it would be rude not to.