Delivering paintings to galleries around the country can be a time consuming affair although it means I have started to become an expert on the best motorway services for the obligatory comfort stop (My current number 1 is Norton Canes on the M6 toll and the worst continues to be Fleet Services on the M3).
Invariably there's an accident closing the road so a quick route change is often necessary and I spend a lot of time with the car atlas as I can't always trust the Sat Nav. Last week, for example, I had a very early start for a gallery visit in Cambridge (got caught out the first time as my Mrs Sat Nav who I fear only ever gained a grade D at CSE in geography and needs constant supervision..I think I've got the work experience version of Tom Tom..but I digress..didn't know about the rising bollard system in Cambridge which comes into force early in the morning and renders access to the streets impossible until the evening). It's a wonder I actually found the gallery and I probably would have had more success using Hansel and Gretel's method.
I sometimes expect mine to say in that stilted voice "oh, I've cocked that up again...haven't I?" But no she keeps quiet whilst expecting me to negotiate an unexpected river or railway line. In fact, given the ending of "Thelma and Louise" I'm surprised that Tom Tom wasn't the sponsor as the sheer cliff face clearly presents no problem in the optimistic mind of the Sat Nav. I should have looked more thoroughly in the box as there was probably an application for a Duke of Edinburgh award for owners chalking up a year without drowning.
I do visualise that she would be the sort of woman who would look like she gives change out from the booth in penny amusement arcades - a sort of bingo winged character like Marina from Last of the Summer Wine. I have her as a chain smoking, red top reader who sits with her feet up in a tongue and grooved clad office with a mug of tea in one hand who when I over ride her and pay no attention to the tortuous route through the mountains she has plotted that she suddenly, on realisation sits bolt up right, her fag dropped swiftly, newspaper gathered in one hand whilst rescuing the burning embers from her wrinkled cleavage muttering an expletive before being forced to "recalculate an alternative route". Don't you..no? Just me then.
