Monday, 15 March 2010

Don't go to Slough

I'm back in Cardiff, barely. Too tired to function after a night out last night and a long mother's day filled with a meal at a lovely restaurant, watching football with Dad and my brother (quality man bonding time; something I've missed) and driving back here.

On the drive back, all was going swimmingly however the sat-nav had no signal for the majority of the journey. However I had managed to get my way to Newport, left to my own devices without problems.
This is where it started to go wrong.
A vast army of cones appeared on the horizon and my car along with plenty of others was forced to exit the motorway where I came across a roundabout. I followed the big 'CARDIFF' on the signs and got in the right lane for the roundabout, however when my exit came more cones were there, blocking my path; smugly smirking in their orange regimented rows.
'Fuck,' I thought as I carried on around the roundabout, being forced to exit at the next exit; only noticing that it was signposted 'THE MIDLANDS'.
After a couple minutes of loud swearing and yelling, I slammed my pedal to the floor and kept my eyes towards the left side of the endless dual carriageway of uncertainty, waiting. Waiting for some kind of sign indicating civilisation.
A few turns and country lanes later, I was at a place called Slough, some back end of nowhere little place in the Welsh countryside, whose defining features were a smattering of modest houses.
I then proceeded to have it out with the sat-nav until it complied with my orders. Voila! I had signal!

Needless to say, I got home, albeit an hour and a half later than I would have liked.

If there's one thing you take from this post, let it be this: don't go to Slough. Ever.

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