Tuesday 5th December 2017

Another long trip to Suffolk.

Sigh.

Up an hour or so before dawn, getting ready for the day. And then Jools taking me into town so I could have a wander round, taking shots of the St James Development from opposite the leisure centre and then down Castle Street to the town square. Taking shots as I go.

Finally walk to Newbridge under the main road to the promenade and to the port to pick up the hire car. There I have to wait for half an hour for the computer to let me have the documents so I can leave with the keys then go home to pack and load up the car.

Whatever happens, this will be my last trip up until Christmas, and to be honest if I have anything to do with it, not even then.

I am ready to leave at half nine, somewhere half the morning had already gone. The car loaded, I find the headlight switch and set off, driving along the Alkham Valley to joining the motorway at Folkestone.

All was going well until, you guessed it, I got to Dartford, and joined the long lines of traffic waiting to get through. We crawl through the tunnel and out the other side, past more roadworks until I turn off and take the A12 instead of the M11. It is half eleven.

Already.

I have the radio on, driving north under leaden skies, trying not to be killed by the usual crazy Essex drivers, through Chelmsford, Colchester to Ipswich, where there was half an hour of queues waiting to turn onto the A14 to cross the Orwell. I get over sometime near one, meaning by the time I get through Suffolk I would have time to go straight to the hospital.

For a change I take a route through Beccles, from the coast, along winding roads, getting stuck behind a tractor, then inching along the narrow streets and lanes of the town to get onto the bypass and from there across the marshes.

Mum is being prepared for discharge, we would have much time to talk the next few days, so we chat a bit before I go back to hers to make the final preparations for her return.

To my surprise I am shattered, with only enough energy to call in at the corner shop for bread and milk before going back home and doing stuff, like moving furniture, getting her walking frames in place, and trying to think of excuses as to what stuff has been thrown out.

I feast on corned beef sandwiches and mince pies with the TV playing the commentary of the European football, but it is dull as ditchwater to be honest.

It’s a quiet evening to be honest. I ponder what the morning will bring, a glass or two of wine helps me think.