Friday 13th October 2017

Groundhog Day.

Awake at just gone seven and then wait for the phone call from the hospital.

I call at nine and find that the doctor had not done his round as yet, but again she takes my number and says she will let me know if there is news or not about a transfer. So, I wait by the telephone until midday, packing the rest of my stuff and piling it by the back door.

Come midday I call again and was told, by a different nurse that the doctor had again done his rounds by nine, and that Mum was still waiting for a bed, and that beds at James Paget were like hen's teeth. So, no change.

At all.

I load the car up and check the house but still manage to leave my coffee pot behind, but that fact I would not discover until I got back to Kent.

And at one, I am ready to go, all loaded up and the route so well know. But it is a Friday, and traffic would be heavy, probably until I got back into Suffolk.

At least at first the roads would be quiet, across to St Olaves and then down the 143 to Beccles, Bungay and so on. Man, I know every bend in this road now! The radio is on, and it is fairly bright, there are worse things to be doing. Until I turn onto the A14 of course.

And it is mental, as usual on a Friday, nose to tail all the way to Newmarket and then crawling to Cambridge, past the top of the motorway and out through the other side, and finally a half hour wait to get round the roundabout to Papworth. This is the spot where the dual carriageway ends, so Friday rush hour traffic trying to funnel from two lanes into one.

I arrive at four, giving me 90 minutes with Mum. Which with all being talked out is 75 too many.

But with dinner being served at quarter past five, that gives me the excuse to make a move, saying I will be back on Sunday. I am back at the car, in theory just two hours from home, but that could easily be doubled on a Friday. There is Steve Lamacq on the radio, playing some fine tunes and interesting chat, then Iggy Pop, amen.

Sure enough it is mad on the motorway down past Stanstead, three lanes of nose to nose traffic, all leading to join the M25, then jostling for position for the off ramp, filtering to the eastward direction. And then wait to join the motorway, and crawl eastwards towards the bridge.

It is eight when I cross into Kent, and the traffic just melts away. Of course it is dark now, but with the roads quiet, I put my foot down as I headed south.

In Folkestone I stop off at Burger King for dinner, zipping home with burgers, fries and drinks, as I know Jools would be waiting. Arriving home just before nine, in time to see Monty and for us to have supper.

I am home, if only for a few days.