Leaving London: a story in 28 hours

I'm back from holiday!

Believe me, the exclamation point is justified. The first 28 hours of the holiday, you see, saw me and the Boy du Jour (I can’t believe no one has pointed out the atrocious grammar in his name yet) attempt to leave London several times and succeed in getting a grand total of three and a half miles from the front door.

How is this possible? Oh, it’s surprisingly simple. It started when Connery’s engine went on strike some three miles up the A1. The first we knew of it were the plumes of smoke billowing out of the engine – mostly grey but sporting a few ominous strands of black. On with the hazard lights and over into the bus lane we went, to await the RAC’s arrival an hour or so later.

Action shot:

Now the RAC is a fine institution but the Morgan was a bit beyond their skills. After another two hour’s exploring and a lengthy discussion between the RAC, my dad and my garage (thank god for mobile phones) we agreed that nothing more could be done. Connery would need to be taken down to the garage for them to make him well again. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll go get the train today and I’ll take Connery down next Friday.”

It took a further hour to get Connery home, engine rigged with a 20-amp fuse and a spare battery plugged in and sitting on the passenger seat to keep him running. The RAC man tailed me back with luggage and Boy transferred to his van, and eventually we deposited the broken car at home. Well, at least I'd (sort of) pre-warned the Boy about Connery’s tendency to shed his essential guts en route.

So onto the number 73 bus and off to Euston we went, only to find that we’d missed cheap fares by about six minutes. Never mind, can’t be helped; we parted with a small fortune for our tickets and had just enough time to whisk round M&S for a picnic and still get on the 3.48 train.

That’s when the train manager’s voice cracked into life over the speakers. “There’s a slight delay on the departure time. Please accept our apologies.”

Whatever. It didn’t bother me unduly at that point (I was already halfway down my first mini bottle of wine) but about 20 minutes later it became more of a problem. “Unfortunately there’s been a fatality at Kings Langley,” we were told. “No trains are currently leaving Euston. We have no estimated time for departure. Please look for alternative routes to your destination.”

The Boy and I looked at each other in horrified silence for a moment, and then the giggles started. Still, we stuck it out for another half hour and finished up the picnic before bowing to the inevitable and going home to get very, very drunk.

Our eventual conclusion was simple. London is an fabulous city and it’s essential for the stability of the nation that its fabulousity levels are maintained at all times. Obviously on Friday a large proportion of fabulous people had left town and the powers that be just couldn’t risk us going too.

Seems reasonable enough to me.

So the next morning we sallied out again, this time to National Car Hire on Pentonville Road. They had a car but they also had a three hour queue which we took turns to stand in while the other went for coffee and a bit of fresh air. But then, at long, long last, we were off to Shropshire, sat nav in hand and bloody determination in mind.

Holiday, here we come!