Friday 21st JUly 2017

I have been employed either by VOFS or MVOW for seven years or more. Depending on the date when I started work full time, for tax, legal or seniority purposes. It could be April, September or November But I digress; in all that time(s), my head office, at least officially is in Warrington. In some seven years, give or take a month or five, I had been there no more than four times. Since the JV going live, I have been invited to many social events, but with travel for projects, even if I was free, the thought of spending yet more time away from home, being sociable with people I did not know meant, that I politely declined each invitation.

And there was the invite from by ultimate boss, would I like to come to an event at Haydock Park races, meal, drinks and laffs? Well, the project had ended, and most of Denmark was on holiday, and I could return at least 5 years of IT equipment. So, I said yes.

All was set, travel up on the Wednesday; on Thursday return said IT equipment, have meetings, then on Friday go tot he event and drive home. It seemed to easy, but for the most part it worked out well. Only, and those of you who follow me on Flickr will now know that as part of the races on Friday, someone was killed in tragic and accidental circumstances, making the event, the betting, the races that we light-heartedly bet up, happen. He will no longer go home to his family, and friends and colleagues will not see him again.

On the other hand, he had a job for 25 years, if the bBC report on the accident is to be believes, and I see no reason not to. But more of that later.

So, now you know why I was able to go to LIverpool, and was staying in a business hotel in Warrington, and that come as soon as possible after the final course was served at the course on Friday, I would be itching for the long drive home to begin. IN a perfect world, a drive from Haydock park to Dover should take six hours. But this was the start of the school holidays, the busiest day on the roads, and heading to the biggest pinch point; the Channel ports. It was a perfect storm of delays, or potential ones at least.

Anyway, the day was set, no chance of backing out now, would just have to accept the day as it fell.

I woke at six. Seeing as I did not need to be in the office until after then, it made sense that I could have four hours laying in bed staring at the ceiling. I could hear rain falling outside, but then this is nearly Manchester.

I get up some time after seven, have a shower, put on a shirt and posh trousers, pack and clear the room. It was eight, time for breakfast and drive over to the offices to meet up with Philip, and maybe do some more copy and pasting.

There is the mix of the golf fan and the business types, along with the group of youths who had hogged the pool table these last two nights. They swore about life, ladies and work in what was a fashionable way some 20 years ago. I mean, who am I kidding, it might be fashionable again, I have no idea. But they eff and blind through breakfast, planning their weekend together, either here of somewhere else where they may live and/or work.

I check out, load the car and drive the 200m to the offices, then walk round, sign me and the car in, and go up to the office where, only me and Philip of those who were going to the social event were in, the others for various reasons, were not going. I log my working hours, copy and paste for an hour and a half until it is time to leave for the race course.

The social event was taking place at Haydock Park, a major horse racing venue, but one of many you've heard of, but not sure where in the country were it is. It is north of Warrington, near to Manchester, I think. We were told, by my boss, that this is a social event, men to wear trousers, shirt and ties. Women to wear something posh. Which for the most part seems to be fascinators. A fascinator is a hat, which does not do the actual job of a hat, material that is pinned to the hair of head, and look nice. Or, if asked how the fascinator looks, the average male must say, with no hesitation that the fascinator looks smashing.

So, we go to the car, I program the sat nav, and it says, we'll be there in 40 minutes. We had been told to be there for half eleven, when dinner, sorry, lunch, would start. We drive up the M6 until are told to turn off, through residential housing until just along the East Lancs road, we turn off, and are surprised to be the only car on the driveway to the course. There are loads of parking spaces, so pick one, and walk to the entrance, where we find we were 40 minutes early, so had to sit in the car to wait, whilst drizzle fell gently outside.

All those who come were dressed to the nines, and most ladies were of an orange tinge, something I will never understand if I'm honest, but at least most blokes looked uncomfortable in suits, or at least trousers and shirts. Come ten to twelve, we can now enter, so walk to the entrance, flash our tickets and passes and are allowed up to the 2nd floor restaurant, where many colleagues were already getting stuck into their first drink of the day. So the scene and pattern for the day was set.

Philip and I are given our drink, and we chit chat with others in our party, me at a disadvantage as I knew very few of them, but all seems good natured anyway. Our server got us to sit down and took our order: insalata caprese followed by lamb for me, and most of the others. Te guy opposite had green lipped muscles for starter, and felt pretty ill for the rest of the day; I'm sure the two are not connected.

After we had eaten the main course, time to put on our bets for the first race, the guy next to me knew someone who knew someone in the game, and had "hot" tips. I back the first of the tips, and put a fiver on each way, and much to my surprise, comes in third but at 8-1, wins me £15.

After cheese and biscuits, there is a second race, I lose a tenner, but already the excitement was wearing off. And by the third race, i lose the last of my winnings, as each race from now on had four runners or less, only paid out on the winner.

Come the 4th, most people were concentrating on drinking or trying to secure additional deserts because of the amount of wine having been drunk. In short we were not really concentrating on the preparations for the 4th race.

It was due to have gone off at half three, but that time came and went, nothing happened, the TV screens showed races from other courses. Someone came in said there had been an accident, and there was a green screen hiding what had happened. The obvious thought was that a rider had been thrown, or there had been a malfunction with the stalls. It turned out that with the various length of races, the starting stalls had to be moved from the 5, to seven furlong to two mile starts, and in the last of those moves, the stalls had struck a working who operated the stalls.

The air ambulance arrived, and looking outside it was a scene of a major event, but no news came. Until four when as a result of the seriousness of the incident, all further races that day had been cancelled, so no more racing. Philip tried to get his money back, and once he had been to the bookie, we bid farewell to our drunken colleagues to walk to the car. I was going to drop him off in Stockport, have a cuppa before driving south. Only this was the busiest days of the year on the roads, not only was there racing, there was a flower show at Tatton Park and the Open Golf in the area. All roads were jammed, far worse than usual.

It wouldn't have mattered which road I had chosen even if I had not dropped Phil off, in fact once I got to his house and pressed eastwards over the Peak District, the promise was of a quieter route, but we had to get there first. Also in the way was Manchester Airport, and the radio reports from many of the local station s spoke of accidents on some of the motorways, especially the 62 over the hills east, which is the way I would have gone.

So we inch eastwards, down the 62 then onto the 57, taking the airport turn off, taking half an hour to get through a set of traffic lights and driving into the centre of Stockport before turning off into the leafy suburbs where he lived. We arrived at quarter to six, the 35 minute journey having taken just under 90 minutes. I said I would press on rather than come in for a cuppa and a bite to eat. So we wave farewell, and I set.

Head for the A6 he said. So that is what I did, getting lost on the ringroad, but finding a way to turn round, then in a long line of traffic, begin the drive towards the dark summits of the Pennines in the distance. In an hour I had left the big towns behind, and the road began to snake up and up, lines with dry stone walls, with stern looking towns lining the road.

Up and up the road wound, it would have been a fine drive if it had been a fine and golden summer evening. As it was, a steady rain fell, and the peaks of the hills hidden from view. I turn off towards Chesterfield, the road began to drop, twisting and turning down a wooded valley, but getting ever darker. A closed road meant a diversion around the city centre, getting stopped at every set of lights, following the yellow signs.

Before joining the M1, I fill up and grab a sandwich and sausage roll to eat, if all went well, it would be non-stop to Dover. If all went well.

And for the most part it did. Joining the motorway, I was able to cruise for hour after hour, making my way south towards Coventry. The sat nav and I had a difference of opinion, I decided to go along the $14 from the bottom of the M6 to Cambridge, then pick up the motorway south, joining the M25 further east that staying on the M1. In time the sat nav worked out my plan and agreed with the plan, the advantage for me was that I knew the road, so could relax and know roughly how long the remainder of the drive would take. I guessed I would be home just after 11, not too bad.

Darkness began to fall, and as is usual, Essex had more than its fair share of nutter drivers, but I make good time still, turning onto the motorway to Thurrock. And I began to relax, thinking I was inside the last two hours.

The matrix signs began to flash that there was a lane closed, I thought nothing of it, and for over 10 miles there was no sign of any problem. But as we began to climb on the approach to the bridge, traffic came to a halt, and there we sat for 20 minutes. No news on what was happening, only that there was a police car, just visible at the front of the jam.

And suddenly, it moves off, and the four lanes of traffic follow. Over the bridge and through the tolls, we come to an accident where a young man in a hatchback had rolled his car, two lanes were closed and he was still stuck in his car. I get a flash of a fireman talking to the driver, his head covered in dried blood as I drive by. And as soon as it arrived, was gone.

I was in Kent again, and home was an hour away, so I put my foot down and turn down the M20, knowing the road so well, I could almost drive it with my eyes closed, but keep them open.

In fact, traffic wasn't too bad, and in 40 minutes I had passed by Ashford and was thinking about the brew I would have when I got home. And that is when the matrix signs began flashing again. Half a mile from the Hythe junction, traffic grinds to a halt again. So we sit in darkness for another half an hour, no idea what the cause was. And again with no warning, the traffic began to move off again, with the only sign anything was wrong was a car and caravan parked on the hard shoulder.

I pull up at home at quarter to midnight, eight hours after leaving the race course, about what I thought really. Jools was up, waiting for me, waiting with a hot kettle to supply me with a cuppa before we can go to bed, another week over, and the start of another weekend.