“But I can’t see you! No, none of the lorries are flashing their lights. Are you sure you’re at junction 14?”

“Umm, err, urmm. Is there a hotel at Junction 13 too?”

“Yep! We’ll see you in ten minutes.” Liz replied, giggling.

 

For the last fifteen minutes we’d been driving around the northern end of Stafford looking for an eighteen-wheeler Sainsbury’s lorry. The driver of which had hold of the jungle boots I’d bought from him via eBay the night before. They were a bargain at £17.00 and the theory was that we would also save £7.50 in postage costs by meeting the driver of said Sainsbury’s lorry in a lay-by at 10:00 o’clock at night but we had just been around the same round-about on the A34 for the seventeenth time. We’d spent the best part of £4.00 on petrol so far and the tires on the left hand side of the car were wearing four times faster than those on the right. If we didn’t find our lorry driver soon Thursday would become Friday as well.