2:45am: A strange, unshaven man staggers into my bedroom and tells me to get up. It turns out not be a Communist Purge or the FBI as my semi-conscious brain half-heartedly warns me, but my own dear patriarch telling me my adventure is about to begin.
Sod adventure. I roll back under the duvet to sleep. Bladder rapidly disagrees: too much nervous drinking the evening before.
3am: On the road, full of warnings and messages from darling mother, and wishing Dad sounded a bit more confident that he knows the way to Dover. Try to remember the last time I saw this hour and decide that mid-sleep toilet trips aside, it was probably in an alpine hut. Sadly no mountains to climb now, except the 2 degree slope that Felicia battles her way up in first gear.
3:45am: Woken up by Miss TomTom, our annoyingly well-spoken Satnav, and Dad swearing at her. Tell him off for abusing nice English women, then swear at her myself as she tells us to 'turn around when possible' on dual carriageway.
Unearthly o'clock: Arrive at ferry 1 hour and 20 minutes before it leaves. 80 minutes of my life wasted. Tragic youth. Wake up as we drive on board and yell at Dad that we must run full pelt to claim a decent bench to sleep on. Adopt full January sales shopping attitude and run, elbows out, towards the bar. Followed by about 5 people and, well, nobody else actually. Try to ignore the rusting window frames and knife slashes in the seats. Force down suspiciously stale roll for breakfast and sadly decline the Coke Dad has bought me. Caffeinated or not, it's just not a good time for fizzy sugar. The ferry docks with a nauseating bounce, and we discover there are exactly 23 vehicles on the ferry. It still takes 20 minutes to unload them all.
Vaguely acceptable o'clock: Gawwwwd French autoroutes are boring. Wonderful, easy driving, but b-o-riiinguh.
Elevenses o'clock: Early lunch of steak-hache and frites. Feel rather unhealthy, but too scared to do anything but point when ordering and the canteen lady decided we were Eeeengleeesh so must eat ze fast food. Leave a small pile of bright pink meat - still in very British, paranoid state of mind about eating raw dead animal.
My turn to drive: Dad has 3 hour long panic attack: "Make sure you stick to the right, watch that car, remember to indicate, you can use the screenwash if you like, listen to the SatNav, STAY LEFT IN 50 MILES!!, have you still got your passport?" Novelty wears off after an hour or two, and 5 hours of Radio Nostalgie and Radio Cherie (Radio Darling) start to wear on the nerves. Suicidal thoughts lead to a more relaxed driving style.
6pm: Accommodation man Francois phones me as he is being violently murdered. Can hear his blood spurting out and several deadly punches. Hang up and contemplate living in cardboard box. Phone rings: Francois is back from the dead, or rather, his young son had decided to phone me and gurgle down the phone before whacking it very enthusiastically against something very solid.
First sight of mountains! Dad yells at me to watch the road. He just doesn't understand that some people's minds are on higher things...
7pm: Miss TomTom rebels when we we go through a tunnel, so end up completely lost on a one-way street. Drive straight past the house, which now appears to be on a very busy main street, rather than the nice, quiet residential area my rose-tinted mind had remembered. Finally find house again. Greeted by lovely new housemate Beth and unload the car. Leave Felicia in my garage, which is near The Ghetto then head out to dinner.
10pm: Feel rather smug for getting dinner in posh restaurant while wearing yesterday's underwear, crumpled jeans and hoodie. Feel rather less smug when Dad's hotel receptionist gives him a knowing look as he kisses me goodnight. He fails to inform her that I am his daughter, and I feel her beady eye giving me the once over every time I come to meet Dad from then on. Try to break it to him gently that she thinks I'm his prostitute. Turns out he had already twigged but it wasn't worth correcting her. Charming.
11pm: Resort to 4 season sleeping bag as room is freezing cold. Finally fall asleep after what has been a very long day.
Lessons learnt
- It is impossible to drive close enough to toll booths in a right-hand drive car.
- French radio is truly dire.
- Haribo jelly beans taste really chemical. Only the green ones are worthwhile.
- You should not rely on SatNav in regions with lots of tunnels.
2 comments:
Flick - if you think that péages are bad in an English car with 2 people in it.... imagine driving them on your own, with the line building up behind you as you sprint out of the car, round the front, pick up your ticket, run back, seatbelt on and drive off.
Sounds like you're having an interesting time though so far. Hope your room warms up now you're in it!
Trust me, you'll appreciate the nearly-raw meat by the end of your year. Surprisingly addictive. Coming back to English restaurants is then painful - "I said rare - this is well done! Ugh!"
Post a Comment