Off to England with Uli.

One of the most enjoyable things about being young, free and single is the ability to up sticks whenever you feel like it without needing to justify your absence, apart from to your employer, of course. My friend Uli and I decided to have a week's driving holiday in the English Lake District, so I got hold of a book which summed up our goal perfectly: it was called Beer, Bed and Breakfast and was a more than worthy copanikon on our trip. We left Hamburg late one night after a Cats performance, arriving FAR too early for our ferry crossing in Hoek van Holland, waking up freezing with aching bladders and furballs in our mouths from dossing down in the car park between 2am and 6am. I had no idea you could get from Hamburg to the North Sea coast so quickly.

After staying the first night at my Mum's place, we motored north to Kendal, where we located a hostelry, booked ourselves in, did a bit of sightseeing then repaired to the pub for an evening's serious libation. Thus was the pattern set for the week. The countryside was breathtaking, the people friendly and the after-hours lock-in at the Black Cock Inn in...I can't remember exactly where...debilitating. Only later in the week, when we arrived in London, did I notice that the car had started lurching a bit. I put it down the its age and thought no more of it. We stayed a night at a friend's house in Honor Oak before driving back to Harwich. Their children were, as they always had been, absolutely nauseating: ill-mannered, ignorant, dreadfully spoken and devoid of any social grace. The two dogs behaved slightly better than the kids, even if one, after I'd laughed at it getting stuck in the cat flap, bounded over to me and soiled my crisp, new white shirt with its muddy paws. It really seemed to do it on purpose, quite dispassionately; 'Here' it seemed to say, 'That's for laughing at me'.

The holiday was a great success and, once back in Hamburg, I took the car in to be examined. I'd driven for a full week with a two-inch nail sticking out of one of the tyres. When I think back to the speeds we got up to on the motorway it makes my stomach churn. Word to the wise: buy a BMW; you'll be safe even if you've got hardware sticking out of your tyres.