Long long drivey drivey day

Bleary wake up. Where am I? Why are children? Who?

Ah yes. I’m at my friend’s. It’s the school run. I can sleep longer. Zzzz.

ALARM.

Whut? *fumble* “DRIVE TO NOTTINGHAM”…? *snooze* *repeat until far too late* Oh God!

Stumble up from warm comfy torpor. Coffee? Coffee.

Gemma is working from home. She makes coffee. James went to work hours ago. I am glad I’m not him. Satnav. There’s been a crash. Dart charge? Avoid it. Nottingham.

Stumble to the XTrail. I left the sunroof open all night. It didn’t rain. Lucky, or I would have had a really wet bum. Sit. Close sunroof. Drive, baby.

Hours and hours of driving… Something of a mission. I knew I was only putting it off the other day when I delayed the journey for practical reasons around the accessibility of fuel in London etc. There could be no more delay.

The roads happened, in a flash. I was there in industrial forklift land contemplating three keyboards that had been laid out for me. I was sure there were meant to just be two. Thankfully I question it. I was about to drive home with the wrong fecking keyboards. Glad I checked, especially considering the state I’m in. Lots of ladders and eventually the two correct keyboards are in my car. I’m starving. Interesting great big scene workshop up there serving multiple theatres. Lots of people working circular saws in a huge warehouse. The industry of theatre in full swing. It’s not just about me in a nice frock, darlings.

Loaded up. Happy with myself for not just blindly hauling back the wrong keyboards. Looking for lunch.

EVERYTHING in Nottingham is Robin sodding hood. Lawyers using archery in their logo. Burgers. Surely there’s more to the place than ancient anti-Norman folklore. I find a Pakistani place. They haven’t got menus and ignore me when I come in. Perfect.

I eventually get looked at, and try to behave like I know the score.

“Chicken?”

“Chicken.”

“Rice?”

“Rice.”

“Spicymild?”

“Spicy”

“Got cash?”

“Yes.”

I don’t look for these places for the choice. Nobody does. It’s busy here, so it must be good. The meat is no doubt all halal and you can bet it’s fresh and it’s half the price of anywhere else – with no fuss. I shove it into my face with a plastic spoon on a polished wooden table surrounded by the musicality of a language I don’t know, and it’s tasty. I’ve spent a fiver with a drink – that’s all. By the time I’m finished with it I’m weeping with the heat but I’m happy. Back to the car and back through the traffic.

I’d have been home hours ago if somebody hadn’t run out of petrol on the M1 and ended up causing it to be closed while the fire department and police overreacted. I sat in stationary traffic wishing I’d gone another way and occasionally pulling in to let the engines past. Waze was too slow with the reroute. Maybe we were there for forty minutes.

Now I’m home. The bath is running. Candles are lit. I’m dropping off the keyboards tomorrow morning. And then I’ve got a recall audition in Soho. A different head again. But things do seem to be happening again. At last.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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