Yaxley Updates
Posted: 10 Dec 2022, 11:06
A little tale of best laid plans.
Being a clever sort of cove, I’d arranged for a hotel last night somewhere between Heathrow, where I arrived back late yesterday, and Yaxley, where I could breathe in the heady mix of hotdog onions and those little rubbery bits.
Just shy of two hours from there back to Harrogate HQ giving me time to watch us bag a hatful against lowly lowlanders and scoot back up the A1 to see local boy Gareth’s mighty lions.
What could possibly go wrong?
Well, the 12 hour gap between me calling The AA (no, not that one) and them lomping the Doc-mobile on the back of a low-loader 10 minutes ago.
I did manage a hotel, well, sitting mainlining shitty lobby coffee as I hid in the Renaissance hotel’s vestibule, awaiting regular updates from Dog Kennel Lane’s finest.
A text every three hours is regular, right?
So, finally trucking and my “Knight of the road” informs me that his taco is running out and we’re not talking salsa and guac.
He’ll have to hand me over, like the dishevelled parcel that I am, somewhere on route.
“Do you know Frankley Services” he naively enquires?
What’s the expected sentence for beating a bloke in a hi-viz tabard to death with an irony-ometer?
Being a clever sort of cove, I’d arranged for a hotel last night somewhere between Heathrow, where I arrived back late yesterday, and Yaxley, where I could breathe in the heady mix of hotdog onions and those little rubbery bits.
Just shy of two hours from there back to Harrogate HQ giving me time to watch us bag a hatful against lowly lowlanders and scoot back up the A1 to see local boy Gareth’s mighty lions.
What could possibly go wrong?
Well, the 12 hour gap between me calling The AA (no, not that one) and them lomping the Doc-mobile on the back of a low-loader 10 minutes ago.
I did manage a hotel, well, sitting mainlining shitty lobby coffee as I hid in the Renaissance hotel’s vestibule, awaiting regular updates from Dog Kennel Lane’s finest.
A text every three hours is regular, right?
So, finally trucking and my “Knight of the road” informs me that his taco is running out and we’re not talking salsa and guac.
He’ll have to hand me over, like the dishevelled parcel that I am, somewhere on route.
“Do you know Frankley Services” he naively enquires?
What’s the expected sentence for beating a bloke in a hi-viz tabard to death with an irony-ometer?
