I’ve been on what most people are having this year: a holiday in the UK. Predictably, I’ve been to Cornwall, because I own several Breton tops and therefore have the required uniform.
We travelled by car – and before anyone leaps down my throat, a train would have been out of the question. We had a fortnight booked in two self-catering apartments, both of which required bedding and towels; then there’s my bulging bag of meds and the old man’s box of pickles and chutneys. The Éclair-Powells travel heavy – very heavy (I took five coats, because... well, you never know). We also had work stuff, drawing stuff, swimming stuff, umbrellas and a thermal lance (joke).
Suffice to say, the drive there took a mere eight hours, while the drive back just over ten-and-a-half; but I can’t blame the motorway for all of this. By the time we hit south London, around 9pm on our return, there was gridlock around the Oval. Other hold-ups included roadworks, small accidents and a horrific car and caravan fire (in which no one was hurt, but a twisted and charred double vehicle skeleton was left smouldering at the side of the road, causing a two-and-a-half-hour delay on the A30).
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