On the A49 - Stream of Consciousness

Good.  Not rush hour yet.
Things went rather well today. Home in an hour.
Errands done, shopping done, a full tank; don’t think I’ve forgotten anything.

Millie’s head pops up in the rearview mirror, she settles down again with a sigh.

Not long now sweetheart, dinner’s coming.

Good that they’ve installed traffic lights here, much easier to negotiate now;
massive roundabouts can be a pain.

Damn, it’s starting to drizzle; that’s all I need.
Glad I had the car washed, the windscreen's clear; at least it’s water rather than mud swishing about.
Those car washers, strange lot. East Europeans, I suppose. Romanians? Bulgarians?
Small, swarthy, unintelligible. Girls too. With identical trolleys and equipment.
Do they ever get tempted? Car doors left open? Wallets, handbags forgotten by the driver?
I wonder how they live, who owns their trolleys. Some East European boss man, I suppose.
Perhaps they rent the equipment? Or pay it off in instalments? Poor sods. But handy to have around.

Come on, this is a sixty zone, Get a move on! This is an open road, for crying out loud!
Slow drivers, worse than fast ones. No overtaking here.

That chap outside the walk-in centre, handsome old man. Well set-up, well-dressed too. And well-spoken. First thing I noticed was the toe of his shoe on the newspaper on the ground. Strange thing to do.  A little surprised when I handed him the paper. “Thank you very much,” he said, “ I couldn’t get down there. would have kicked it to the nearest seat and picked it up that way.” He had a nice smile too, not the usual cross old man angry about his infirmity. The indignity of it all, don’t ever want to be like him, perhaps I’ll die before old age cripples me.

Leebotwood. Where do they find these village names? The Pound Inn looks quiet. Too many pubs and restaurants forced to close. Will The Pound last? Hope so, nice place, decent food. Bit far from home but good place to stop on the way to town.

O come on, going down to forty really is not on. Ah, his indicator is on, But where the heck is he going? There’s no turning  . . . . . . . Ah, a lay-by, is that what he was looking for? I never pushed him, did I? No, always leave a good gap. Definitely. Thank YOU.  Good, let’s go. Nice straight open stretch to the Strettons. All Stretton, Church Stretton, Little Stretton. "Stretton = ‘On The Street’ - Roman names, obviously."

Caer Caradoc up ahead, his usual brooding self. Why do I call hills ‘he’? Wonder if he looked different in megalithic times when they built the hill fort ? Trees perhaps?  Too many sheep nibbling away for centuries? Must come out for a walk in the Stretton Hills soon. Millie’d love it.



Oops, I seem to have jumped the lights. Can't see  speed cameras around here.  Marshbrook, descriptive name. At least it’s obvious why it’s called Marshbrook. Pretty wet here during the last floods. Affcot, ‘The White House', lovely restaurant. Dark now, no signs at all. Bet it’s been sold as a private dwelling.
Such a pity they left, can’t stand the new place they opened, all plastic tables and catering company food. Won’t see me there, blast them. You find a good place, cosy, good food, friendly service and ambiance, exactly to your liking, not over-priced, and they bugger off. Makes you spit.

Here we are, the Valley Road. Calm down. Home soon. Pouring with rain now. Typical!