For those of you pondering whether or not you should make an ill-advised journey this morning, spare a thought for a couple of people who have already made one.

First things first. Jenny is currently writing a book about fish. It’s not her ball-breaking debut novel, or anything, it’s more like a copywriting gig expanded over several thousand words. Without wishing to spoil the plot or anything, writing this book involves attending “tastings”, whereupon an assembled throng comments on the flavour of, I dunno, coley or huss, while Jenny dutifully attempts to collate their opinions into prose that makes some kind of sense. Weird, huh. Anyway, a number of these tastings have taken place in Grimsby; this usually involves a train journey from London to Newark, and then a change, and then a trek through the wilds of Lincolnshire, which is probably further than anyone has gone in order to get a lukewarm mouthful of pan-fried barracuda.

Last week Jenny was informed that the next tasting would be on Thursday morning – ooh, that’s now, isn’t it – in Grimsby, and it would start at 10am precisely. You don’t need to have a PhD in the state of Britain’s railways to know that this would involve her getting up at 5am. As she had to attend an event the night before promoting some champagne brand – ooh, that was last night, wasn’t it – I thought “ok, here’s my chance to be a dutiful partner.” So what I said, right, was: “Well look, why don’t I pick you up from that event at 9pm, and let’s just drive up there, get there at 1am, stay in a hotel, you do the tasting, I’ll work in the hotel, then we’ll drive back later in the day? It’ll probably work out cheaper, too.”

Grimsby used to be called Great Grimsby, until they thought nah, that’s not really appropriate, is it. As you approach up the M180, plumes of grim industrial smoke belch from towers on the horizon. “Christ,” I said. Progress into the town was quick; the hotel was easy to find, although the car park less so – we ended up going under the wrong bridge and ending up on wasteland in front of a wall with the word “ARSE” written on it. We checked in at 1.30am. As we were about to turn the light off in room 116, the church bells outside our window loudly announced that it was 1.45am. “DANG, DANG, DANG.” After repeat performances at 2am, 2.15am and 2.30am, I mumbled “this is rubbish.” “Isn’t it,” said Jenny, who rang down to reception to get us moved to a room on the other side of the building. The bells were virtually inaudible in room 132; sadly the generator keeping the building functioning was not, and maintained a sleep-depriving rumble. I must have dropped off at about 4am; at 7.15am Jenny’s mobile phone rang and woke me up. I ignored it. In the room next door, I heard the muffled sound of a man waking up, realising where he was, and shouting “F*ck!” When Jenny’s mobile rang for the second time at 8.15am I picked it up. The news came through that today’s fish tasting is, inevitably, cancelled.

So we’ve come to Grimsby for no reason. And the news is telling us not to leave town without a cocking spade in the boot.