Tuesday 17th December 2019

Dateline: Southampton

Again.

Weather: dark and raining.

So it begins, my last travel day, or working away from home day of the year.

Just have to get through a day auditing, then drive home via the M3, M25 and A2 in rush hour; what could go wrong?

I get up and switch the radio on at half five, I make that eight hours good sleep. I feel better. Still chesty, but better.

I'll take that.

The radio burbles away, and I have two hours to fritter until I have to meet Askil for breakfast. So I doze.

Up with a jump at half seven, shower, dress and pack. Another check of the room for forgotten stuff, and I am gone like a shadow at dusk. Down the endless corridor to reception, hand in my swipe card, load the car and go for another disappointing breakfast.

The coffee was slightly warmer and fresher, and there was an impressive team of management on duty, nothing to do with the multiple one star reviews listed that week. The food was OK, but limp. Like they had cooked it in liquid disappointment.

Askil comes down and has the same, so at twenty past eight we nod to each other and it us time to leave.

The road from the hotel to site runs past a couple of small towns, all jammed with traffic. I mean there must be some towns that don't have jams caused by school runs, but I'm not sure. We arrive at five to nine, and David is right behind us.

We all sign in and drive through the derelict power station to our offices so the work of the day can start.

And that's what we do for seven hours, finally wrapping up at four, just in time for the afternoon rush hour between here and Southampton and then up the motorway and along the M25.

Perfect.

And it was raining and dark, of course. I program the sat nav for Ebbsfleet where I will droop Askil off, 120 miles, and we should arrive at twenty past five.

By the time we reached the edge of Southampton the estimated arrival time at Ebbsfleet was an hour later.

So it goes, so it goes.

At least traffic onto the motorway was light, and a couple of places up the M3 to London it was busy, but not so bad it delayed us much. But the nightmare that is the M25 lay ahead, what Chris Rea called "the road to hell".

The jam began as we passed under the M25 on the link road, so we inched along it as three lanes joined into one. But it was sensible, and traffic fitted together like a zipper closing. And from there, well, busy, but not jammed. So much so that the estimated time reduced by half an hour.

And all was going well until we passed the top of the M20 to the junction for the A2. Having never joined the Canterbury road from the west, I did not know that instead of a flyover like from the east, there was a huge four or five lane roundabout to get round, with traffic lights at each junction, and the lanes poorly marked. I won't lie, it wasn't fun, but I managed to turn off at the right exit, nudging my way into the traffic, then up onto the main carriageway.

For two junctions, then I turn off for the international station, giving Askil instructions on what to do and where to go at Stratford. I wave goodbye and am gone.

Like a bat out of hell.

It was ten past seven, just 60 miles to go, and all I wanted to do was get home, so no stopping for dinner.

I cruise south towards Dover. I mean I know the road so well, and on the radio is the last Marc Riley show of the year. Like travelling with an old friend.

I turn into our road at five past eight, and there was a parking space outside our house! For once. I park up and unload the car, the weight of the year on my shoulders. Like poor Smeagol, I feel worn thin. But I will have two weeks off, just one more day of working from home.

Jools opens the front door, and I step inside.

Home now.