It's beginning to look a lot like Brexit ...

I nearly missed the junction for Brighton today, and the reason I did was because I thought I hadn't been on the M25 for anywhere near long enough. In fact, I even wondered if I'd entered a dissociative state or magically fallen asleep for a time without crashing the car, because one moment we were fresh off the M3 and the next the sat nav was urging me to get into the second lane from the left and keep right at the fork. Then I realised I'd actually been driving at 60 and 70mph, that I'd hardly noticed those horrible rumble strips, and in fact there weren't that many cars on the route that's normally akin to the eighth circle of hell. A bright side to the it's-not-a-petrol-shortage shortage, after all ... as long as you have some. 

We were off to the south coast to celebrate my daughter's birthday - a meal and a fossick on the beach for interesting pebbles and sea glass. Except that almost as soon as we were on the M23, it began to tip with rain. 'Never mind,' I announced to my sons, 'we'll still go to the beach, if only for five minutes. Can't drive all this way and not see the sea.' 

We had a cup of tea at my daughter's partner's flat and drove to the Marina. It was still raining. In fact, it was bucketing. We chose our preferred eaterie out of the 2o-odd lining the quay and skittered towards it through the wet, only to be greeted by the news that there was a shortage of food. 

Bypassing Wetherspoons - obviously - we tried another restaurant. And another. And another. By now we were drenched and very hungry. Somebody mentioned Bethlehem and no room at the inn. At the fifth attempt we struck lucky and munched our way through pizza and olives, but we were damp and cold and the shine had been taken off the occasion a little. 

Returning to the car park we saw wind-whipped waves breaking over the Marina wall, and decided against a walk on the beach after all. 

Back at the ranch, I dropped the offspring off at the entrance to the flats, went to find somewhere to park, and squelched my way back, dreaming of a nice cup of tea, only to find them huddled in the entrance. Turned out my daughter's key was with her partner who'd headed to the station to pick up her friend (also Jenny) who was coming down to celebrate the aforementioned birthday. 

Eventually there was just time for tea before we had to head for home, a truly horrible journey characterised by continual rain of sufficient heaviness to require the fastest windscreen wiper setting all the way from the coast to Swindon. And whilst I know I can't blame that on Brexit, there's no chance of moving somewhere warmer and sunnier now our freedom of movement has been removed. 

On the plus side there was petrol at our local Sainsburys. It could always be worse. But not much. 

The Day The Oil Flowed Uphill

Once upon a time there were well-staffed, well-equipped day centres for people with disabilities, offering them the chance to meet with their friends and carers, have fun and practise new skills and hobbies. Then successive Tory governments capped local government spending and lo, the centres were closed because they were too expensive to run. This cost-cutting exercise was presented as a chance for disabled people to choose how they spent their time and (reduced) funding, by employing support workers and receiving some money (Direct Payments) towards expenses, whether that be occasional petrol, accommodation and food costs incurred in the pursuit of hobbies or social activities, or materials to do crafts, learn an instrument, etc - anything, really, as long as it was part of their care plan.  

But now, with another Tory administration and further shrinking of the state, disabled people are no longer allowed to enjoy themselves and the funding for Direct Payments has been slashed.  (Serves them right  for making all those ill-advised loans to flighty foreign countries, eh?) The hatchet fell on my son's funding back in the spring, with his social activities deemed by some local government manager 'what any mother would do for her son' - something that really doesn't wash when he's 24 and you have more than one son and can contrast and compare.  Still, we scrimped enough to be able to afford the one last trip we'd already booked to the Robot Wars World Championships in Colchester - a chance for my son to say goodbye to his friends who travel all over the country to cheer on their favourite teams.  

Robot Wars doesn't really do it for me, so while he was cheering himself hoarse, I'd planned a trip to three nearby churches in Essex to see their mediaeval wall paintings.  I also intended to see the three hares glass in the church at Long Melford, and the half-timbered higgledy-pigglediness of Lavenham, having never been to Suffolk. 

The early morning mist had burnt off by the time we passed Reading and all was set fair for our weekend, when the traffic came to a standstill on the M25.  We caterpillared our way around, still making progress, when I noticed that the the tarmac was getting really bumpy.  Rumble strips? I thought. On the motorway?  But despite switching lanes and surfaces, the juddering continued.  Then an orange light started to flash on the dashboard. To pull in on the hard shoulder or limp on 15 miles to South Mimms Services and safety, with the possibility of risking further damage to the engine? One look at my travelling companion and how scarily busy and noisy the traffic was and I opted for the latter.

There was a further alarming moment when I ended my call to the breakdown people, opened the driver's door and saw a huge oil stain on the ground.  Argh!  Except that weirdly, it seemed to have pooled uphill.  I was still puzzling over this when the repair man turned up and informed me that the area I'd parked in, just inside the entrance and to one side, under some shady trees, was notorious for breakdowns.  Someone else's disaster in the adjoining bay, then. 

As for my poorly car, it was a misfire in cylinder 4. I've no idea what that means except that it's common in Vauxhalls apparently. But that's little consolation when it comes down to a wasted hotel reservation, tickets and petrol costs for a final road trip that didn't happen.

We did get home safely, however, and I'm thankful for that.