Saturday 18th November 2017

I awake at five: I know this as I put on the bedside lamp on, then switch it off. Should I go back to sleep or make tracks and leave early?

I already knew the answer. So after thinking about the things to be done, I get up, get dressed and pack the car; taking one last look around the living room, I leave. It is quarter to six.

Oulton Broad is very quiet, and the roadworks blocking are now gone, so I go down to the bridge over Mutford Lock before turning at the Flying Dutchman to join the A12 south. I have the radio on, and Chris Hawkins is knocking the ball out of the park with his choice of tunes. Coupled with the empty road, the drive to Ipswich is a pleasure, throwing the car round the bends and slight hills on the main road.

However, no matter how enjoyable the drive is, I have had no coffee, nor no breakfast. With the car running low on fuel, I think I will get south of Ipswich before I stop and fill up me and the car. Away to the east, the horizon is lighting up with a promise of another splendid day, so I press on.

Just north of Ipswich, the dual carriageway starts, and I can really put my foot down. Over the Orwell Bridge, now has a reduced speed limit of just 60, so I nudge the limit as I go over, passing slower cars as I do.

As is my luck, I stop at the only garage on the road that is all out of coffee. Really?! But it is true, no coffee at all, so I have to make do with a cold milky coffee thing from the fridge, but there is a fine large sausage roll with my name on it.

Into Essex, and now that it is light I can make out the landmarks and churches as I go south. Joining the M25 is painless, I arrive at the roundabout as the lights go green, and barely slowing down I take the second exit and accelerate up the ramp and merge into the motorway traffic.

As I near Thurrock, the sun rises and casts warm light catching the side of buildings, trucks and wind turbines as I cruise along and over the bridge. I had flown over it just two days before, of course.

And I am into Kent, taking the second exit onto the M20, back on familiar territory now, although I know most of the roads between Dover and Lowestoft now of course, but this is back in Kent. I carry on down the North Downs and into the Garden of England.

Being November, there isn't much traffic about going to the port, so I can cruise along, knowing I'll be home before nine, in time for coffee and 2nd breakfast.

But I am home, and it is good. Jools is just back from Tesco and has croissants, so all is well with the world, until I forget they are in the oven and nearly burn the buggers. But turns out crispy croissants are good. Just as well.

We do have chores to run, stating with returning the hire car. If we got that over with we could not do anything for the rest of the day. Which was nice.

We call in at the pet food shop for some fat balls which the foxes and/or badgers come to feast at night. I did tell Rachel this week that people in Britain spend money, sometimes lots of money, on feeding wild animals and birds, just for the pleasure of seeing them come into our garden. Jools goes to Morrison's to get pies. Pies are great. I mean you can put anything in a pie and it will be great. Even chicken and ham in a pasty is OK if you put enough curry ketchup on it, as I proved at lunchtime.

But chores were done, we could go home, and I really thought of putting on my dressing gown on ready for bed. It was ten in the morning.

Huey was on the radio, we could have coffee, ginger cookies I bought from a church the day before. Free trade, of course, what would you expect from a church? But ginger in a cookie is great. And lazing around, editing pictures, listing to cool tunes is great, especially after you have spent 23 hours, 50 minutes being a dutiful son. This is my time. Time with Jools and the cats. I was blissfully happy.

There was the North London Derby to listen to. Jools and I have lunch, can't remember what, but we both have a bottle of plop. Beer for me, as tired as I was, I knew the Belgian one still in the fridge would have knocked me out for hours. As it was, Jools went to bed for two hours after her cider, and I listened to football, trying to concentrate on what I was listening to. It was a tough gig.

Arse beat Spurs, then I followed as Norwich drew 1-1 with Barnsley. Meaning I was so focused on that result, that I can't really tell you who else won or lost. Bah, humbug.

We listen to more radio as we sip hot soup and buttered fresh bread for dinner, and plan our next day out, tomorrow in that London.