We go to Big Hairy Pete’s party.

Big Hairy Pete runs an excellent pub in Hertfordshire. It is about two hours away. The people there would be more my friends than the LTLP’s, and I am grateful for her coming, so I offer to split the driving equally.

Thus it is that I drive there and she drives back.

Last time we went, I got shouted at a bit for getting drunk and sleeping all the way home. This time I am determined to be a better travelling companion, and plan a schedule of witty and urbane conversation.

It is, as expected, an excellent do.

I know when it is time to leave, and zigzag to the car, sinking comfortably into the bucket seat. We set off. The dialogue goes something like this:

“God, isn’t this just a great CD?”

“Yes, I quite like it.”

“It’s an absolutely stonking track. Stonking.”

“It’s a bit loud.”

“But isn’t this just the best CD?”

“Yes, it’s all right.”

“I need to go for a wee wee.”

We drive on until we reach a suitable field. I go for a wee wee. We listen to the rest of the CD.

“Isn’t that one of the greatest records ever made?”

“Well it’s all right I suppose.”

“I’m going to put it on again.”

“Can’t you put something else on?”

“I need to go for another wee wee.”

She takes a deep breath and drives on. We reach a dark secluded bit and she pulls over.

I get out of the car. Into a ditch.

I extricate my leg, sway about a bit and go for a wee wee. I return to the recently-valeted car. I shake a bit of muddy water off, but can’t avoid treading filth on the carpet. I am dimly aware that I smell of ditch.

I engage her in a bit more conversation about the CD. I’d like to say that she was very patient and understanding with me, and she probably was, but I fell asleep at that point and only woke as we were backing into the drive.

“Come on,” she says. “Get your shoes off. I’m really tired.”

“I’m hungry,” I say brightly. “Is there anything to eat?”