it feels like I've been trying to sleep for hours. It's one hour.

I am now in the front. Laura is driving, after Tidy Paul had us almost bouncing off the central reservation with wearyness (or frustration). Laura had a tough time working out where the gears were, but we're up to fourth now so that should be OK for the next, what, 128 miles. I'm reminded of the Floral Dance… “Whether she was comprehensively insured, I know not, but we dozed as we drove along….” It will be interesting to gauge Sally's reaction when she wakes up just outside Rugby with the van driver slumbering peacefully next to her.

We were handed free packets of “Maynard Sours” by a twat in a yellow t-shirt at one of our many service station stops on the way up, and these are now coming in handy. They have an excellent bitter initial taste which keeps the senses prickling.

F*ck. Let's play a game. I spy. OK. I'll go first. I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with T.

No?

Trusthouse Forte. Your turn.