I’m a travelling man
Despite still not yet being restored to a position where I can drive on the roads of the UK, despite having served my sentence of six months’ disqualification for amassing 12 speeding penalty points (since when I have not yet been able to find an insurance broker or company that will insure me), I have been doing some travelling this week.
First up, on Wednesday I needed to travel to a pub not far from Birmingham for a carvery lunch with my fellow members of a battlefield touring group in order to discuss a possible tour that we are contemplating making to Normandy in France in September.
My biggest lucky break was that the Memsahib – I don’t wish to appear sexist in any way here, but an unusual lady in that she is happy to be tagged as a “petrol head” fan of all things to do with motor vehicles and driving – was able to arrange that she did not need to work on Wednesday and immediately offered to act as my chauffeur.
As a result, we were able to travel from the south coast as far as Twickenham for an overnight stay before driving on to our lunch venue on Wednesday morning – a two hour, twenty minute trip, which we completed without incident and on time.
The lunch and meeting then having finished by 3.00pm, we then faced what our sat-nav software was estimating would be a three-hour drive back down to the south coast. In total, therefore, my chauffeur was obliged to drive for over 300 miles in my cause – for which (naturally) I was very grateful.
Needless to say, once we arrived home, in short order we then “hung our hats & coats”, completed a change of clothes, made ourselves a modest evening bite to eat and a pair of stiff drinks … and relaxed in a state (by then) of near-complete exhaustion. I certainly slept the deep sleep of someone with a clear conscience and true weariness that evening – this in contrast with my habitual practice of fitful asleep and (often) waking up in the middle of the night to then spend four hours or more at my computer.
And so to yesterday, upon which the Memsahib and I had a late morning appointment at a bank in Bognor Regis, of all places. After it, she had to go straight on to work and I had to make my way back home by bus, using my new and recently-acquired Senior Citizen’s bus card.
Firstly, this required me to catch a bus from Bognor to Chichester. Accordingly, I first had to locate the correct road on which “through route” buses operated.
To my own surprise I found it without incident and – having established that the next 600 bus (which went to Chichester) was some 17 minutes away, I nipped to a WH Smiths’ store to buy a newspaper to read on the journey.
Returning to the bus stop and flopping onto a spare seat, I was then joined by a lady of about my own age (70) who initially stood squinting at the constantly-updating electronic display board of buses and times.
I offered my assistance. She announced that she was having difficulty in reading the board details because the sun was shining on it. Having assisted her with that task, she sat beside me and I engaged her in conversation. I was seeking to travel to Chichester: was I correct in assuming that the 600 bus – which was listed as travelling initially to Middleton and then Elmer – would then “turnaround” and come back the other way and progress on to Chichester?
My companion said it might, but (in her opinion) a better bet for me might be to cross over the road and catch a number 700 bus because that would be going straight on both to Chichester and then Portsmouth.
I thanked her and looked across the road. Of all happy coincidences, there was a number 700 bus approaching, going in the opposite direction (towards Chichester) … and its next bus stop was but 40 yards away to my right.
Ingolby can move decisively and with purpose when the occasion demands.
Without hesitating, I sprinted across the road in front of the 700 bus and hot-footed it to the bus stop, arriving there just ahead of said vehicle and, after joining the queue to board it, I found a seat and settled in for the journey.
A while later, at the Chichester bus station, I then had a 20-minute wait for a number 51 bus that would take me to my final destination … and home.
Life’s a funny thing, isn’t it?
Just as on some days nothing goes well for you – just as randomly – on others everything goes your way.
Yesterday was one of the latter for me.
