Left Portscatho 9:40 for the long drive. The motorway gods smiled on us, recognising at the wheel one of their most devoted acolytes, and with only two stops (Gordano services & Lancaster Forton services, both hubs of grease alive with the hum of inefficient heat exchangers on the back of fridges full of Cheesestrings) we managed to do the whole 474 miles in one go. Arrived home at 8pm. Hadn't been burgled, both cats turned up within 20 mins, no floods, fires or explosions and everything still worked apart from the boiler (topped up) and the telephone (switched provider while away).
My many years of putting in long days followed by long drives have given me the ability to keep going almost indefinitely, but there is a price to pay. I knew what to expect. Despite attempting to still my mind with a medicinal can of draught Guinness (a gift from Graham Humphreys) my night was filled with the residual echo of the hum of road noise, and the ghostly after-image of a dotted white line flying towards me. My night wasn't helped by Bill (cat 2) apparently being so relieved to see us return that she would not desist from yowling outside the bedroom door until we let her in - against my rules but even my heart of stone can be melted by a bereaved kitty - whereupon she cuddled in and purred like a bloody chainsaw for ages, before deciding to resettle noisily on a plastic carrier bag in the corner of the room, before deciding to go out again (more door-yowling), before deciding to come back in again at 5:30 a.m. etc. etc.
Holiday? Feel like I've been keel-hauled and we haven't started unpacking yet.
Can I go back to work yet?