So, after months of preparation, and two weeks of saying "no" ("can I make a last-minute sjow application?" "Can I have some extra days fir my show?" "Do you print my flyers?" "Do I get paid?" "Can I have a feature slot on your show?" "Will you watch my poem on YouTube and tell me what you think?" "Are you going to pay £600 more for your accommodation at the last minute?"), I set off on the first leg of my northward migration last night.
To say I was running late would be the kindest analysis. Try four hours delay. First I had to negotiate work argh, then greedy landlord emails, a recalcitrant printer (or, rather, it was my until-now collaborative laptop that refused), and a hire car a class smaller than the one I'd paid for, into which I was trying to ram a bewildering array (and quantity) of stuff.
When the last stuff was rammed, the rear windscreen viewable from the inside, the last random things pocketed, the last goodbyes said, and the course plotted on my almost-trusty phone, I was off! 11:30pm is, in some ways, a good time of night to be driving, but a terrible time to set off on a 3:20 journey after a full day of work. Ach well, at least my lovelies made sure I ate first (Co-op posh pizza ftw).
Via mostly-deserted roads, lorry-racing (each other), absent roadworks and variable speed limits, a haunted roadside toilet, and the world's most random music mix, I found my otherwise untroubled way (thanks to Lucozade and Google) to