Saturday

We hired a rather unpleasant looking Renault Megane and we drove to the environs of Chichester.

I'd like to begin a novel like this, but sadly I'm probably only going to be able to squeeze 800 words or so out of it. When I say “we drove” I actually mean “Jenny drove”, as I've reached the age of 33 having accumulated no knowledge of driving save for a few pointers I picked up while whizzing about in a dodgem car in 1985. We started in Muswell Hill, crossed town, stopped off at my flat in Tooting, then headed down the A3, turning off towards Midhurst and a clutch of hilariously named villages (Cocking) and road names (Manhood Lane). We were fortunate to be on a semi-freebie staying at West Stoke, an enormously rambling and very beautiful building in the middle of nowhere, with rooms to stay in, and a restaurant to eat in. I loitered in reception, reading the guest book.

It was nice, but the desert was too rich. I would have preferred something light like papayer or kiwi fruit.

Daniel (13)

Rude little shit.

We had a couple of hours to spare, so we drove off to the coast, starting at Bosham. Bosham is pronounced Bozzum, and when were advised to go there, I hoped it was spelt Bozzum. It wasn't. It was profoundly English – as was everywhere we visited. Any black faces in this part of the world would be viewed with horror – but it works both ways; try riding a bicycle with a panier down Tooting High Street while wearing an enormous floral dress and sunhat, and see what reaction you get. Anyway, yes, profoundly English, but with a pub called The Anchor Bleu, whose name we wrestled with the translation of for quite some time.

We still had some time to kill, so down the coast, avoiding West and East Wittering – one of which was the location of the infamous Rolling Stones Mars Bar'n'drugs bust – and on to Selsey. The only reason for doing this was to have woken up in Muswell Hill, and ending up in Selsey Bill, to realise my boyhood dream of acting out all the lyrics to Madness's “I Like Driving In My Car”. I realise that a) having a car, and b) being able to drive, would help considerably.

Sunday

We took a circuitous route back to London. First to Felpham, a small village sellotaped onto Bognor Regis, where Jenny used to spent her family holidays when she was a small child. We relived her fast disappearing memories, by buying a refreshing cornet of vegetable fat pumped with air, courtesy of a morally corrupt multinational who sell formula milk to 3rd world countries. Mmm.

Then up to Arundel, where the sheer Englishness – tea rooms, St George flags etc – prompted muffled laughter. Then up a hill along a no-through-road to Burpham – sadly pronounced Burfum – where we stumbled upon Burpham & Warningcamp Cricket Club taking on another local team. Large numbers of fat men in cricket whites exhibited their inability to bend over and pick up the ball, while more lithe and supple young men exhibited their inability to throw it. Heart-warming stuff.

Then up the A24, while I quietly nodded off to the sounds of “Gaucho” by Steely Dan. Journalism: A Glamour Profession.