Drivin' Mr Lazy

So the time comes to point the devil possessed Christine slightly northwards, to do a small niceness for Miss Biro J, time to time guest star of this little bloggette. Now here's a weird thing. For three weeks or so the left hand lights not been working, waiting for me to get my arse in gear and get over to Halfords to spend money on something that's not fun, to replace it. Yeah, right. Tonight, it's working fine. We'll call that intermittent electrical fault then.

Anyways up, the journey. Got as far as Immingham to find myself filtered entirely off the main A180. "Hmmm", I thought, "that can't be right" and turned around to go back to the main road. Nope, filtered from there too. They've shut the entire west carriageway, and set up the teeniest signed diversion on the face of the planet through all the woozey little villages in between. Joy. I get stuck behind an outsize load trailer, carrying an enormous quanity of preformed bulk concrete parts and begin to swear. This rotten sod can't go more than about 15 in the sticks, and there's no way around him, blind bend after blind bend. Fuming a bit at this. No notification, no proper signing so it can be avoided. That's Lincolnshire. It's the best argument for the return of handguns to the country. I feel strongly that as I finally get the heart attack I've been working for all these years; as the iron vice grabs my chest, I'll draw a Smith & Wesson and kneecap the bastard that's driven me to it, thus the champ bows out undefeated.