Underground, over ground, bumbling me

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’Tis the week of travel chaos down here in the Capital.

Getting from A to B (and C, D and E for that matter) has proved a little tricky of late.

And not because I’ve had to battle the elements, like those living on the south west coast.

No, my problem has been caused by the man, not mother nature.

OK, not just the man, I may have caused some of my own misery, particularly when in control of the rental car I picked up last weekend.

When Momma S phoned to say she had finally completed her house sale, The Boy and I set off as soon as we could.

Rather than pay the extortionate ticket fare dictated by National Rail these days, we hot-footed it to Heathrow, picked up a ‘mini economy’, and headed for the M40.

So far so good.

Four hours later, and the happy helpers arrived. One, the driver, slightly more frazzled than when she set off, having forgotten how incompetent so many are behind the wheel.

Not I, of course, who knew exactly what she was doing.

Except when it came to refuelling the little beast. Can someone tell me, who went and changed all the petrol pumps in the last six months?

Standing on a forecourt in the freezing cold is never much fun, but when your nozzle won’t fit in the hole (keep it clean, people) you’ve got a real problem.

With unleaded dripping over car, key and yours truly, one praised the day she sold her own vehicle. Who needs the hassle?

Or the dirty looks from fellow drivers and cashier, all of whom were convinced I was somehow stealing the goods and couldn’t believe it could take four attempts to fill up to the tune of £33.59.

Get me back to London please, and the ease of the underground.

When you know you can hop on a train and let someone else do the worrying.

That is until: ‘Tube Strike’. It’s a conspiracy.

So once again I was back on the road, this time on a crowded number 6.

With all those who had, I presume, never stepped foot on a bus before, taking up two seats with laptops, tablets and such like, continuing with their 9am conference call from the back seat of the upper deck.

Roll on the weekend. I’m never leaving the house again...