Grimble and G On Tour. Day One
Amazingly, the boot packed neatly without any cussing or cursing and, so far, 10 hours into the car journey, they had yet to lament a necessary item secreted in a case in the rear of the car. This portended well.
The journey on the M25 had the usual suspects: matrix messages that informed them of impending doom somewhere ahead and caution required. Apparently, there was an “incident” and later an “obstacle” designed to bring their smooth running journey to a dramatic halt. They transfixed their gaze seeking said event.
However, neither happened despite the traffic slowing to an excruciating crawl alarmed at the possibility that a fallen log, or large box of random produce, or maybe even a UFO was strewn across the carriage way rendering it impassable. Grimble felt that an upturned traffic cone on the hard shoulder hardly warranted 20 million neon warnings and suspected that this was a sly method of ensuring slow traffic.
On the road again
They made good time with only a solitary pre tunnel stop at Tesco because neither of them were willingly going to pay the thieving bastard prices at the tunnel for a sad sandwich. They were mightily pleased with themselves for their budget canniness with two enticing meal deals. Although Grimble’s insistence that she needed a heavily reduced pair of pantaloons and matching top for vacationing, despite the trouser leg being designed for a 6 foot giant and not a short arsed Grimble, as well as the fact that her case could not hold any more clothing, may have negated any economic benefit to this pit stop.
And so to France an hour earlier than booked in the tin can that is the shuttle and Grimble and G left the rare Summer sunshine of the UK to arrive in Calais whereupon it immediately pissed down: unrelenting and grim.
Bon soir France
Luckily, their route tonight consisted solely of the A26. However, Grimble, the organisational wizz, had previously pre loaded and categorised the journeys on the car satnav, giggling to herself as journey 3 to Peniscola naturally abbreviated to penis which happily flashed up every time they sought their chosen route.
They had even pre booked their toll road and had been sent a tiny box which G had masterfully secreted behind the front mirror to move effortlessly through the French tolls booths. However, G cruelly sent Grimble into a major quandary as they were metres from the toll demanded she turned the miniscule, already activated, toll tag on. She leapt into a frenzy of uncertainty and panic trying to discover the on button in the difficulty placed miniscule box on the front window as the barrier loomed ominously close, yelping that it was defective and nowhere to be seen.
Finally, G calmly informed her he was jesting and let out a sneaky snigger at fooling the Grimble.
Death stare Grimble
G then had to endure the Grimble death stare and gritted teeth for at least 10km. He occupied the silence listening to some random French radio station, as he had earlier informed Grimble that it would help them to embrace the culture and language.
After an hour of musical purgatory, where the best and most understandable track was Desparcito, Grimble was yet to feel embraced, though she was muttering merde at an increasingly alarming rate. After, the 10km of death stare silence, the impasse was broken by G requesting to move to a Spotify playlist.
Elvis assisted in restoring harmony as G and Grimble bellowed happily to the likes of Hound Dog and Return to Sender commenting occasionally on the noxious smells of rural France. Darkness descended on the journey. Whereupon, the car lights activated.
Had G decided to fit headlight diverters, then possibly there would have been fewer friendly flashing oncoming trucks greeting us as we passed dazzling them with our beams of light. After what seemed like a thousand kilometres of trucks gesturing to us with light and fist, G cleverly decided to dip his lights thus restoring the eyesight of many truck drivers.
The satnav screen transformed an exciting light sabre and its calm English voice directed them onwards with odd interludes where a deep husky French voice usurped the calm English one to state French town names that bore no relation to the words on the signposts. As they travelled ever south, the grey clouds finally gave way to a billion trillion tiny stars. Suddenly, and expectantly, it felt like holidays…