It seems that I've spent most of the time I've been back in town stuck in traffic jams. The drive back from Terminal 5 to my home took three hours - and I mean three hours - thanks to an accident on the M4 or the A40 or whatever it's called - that brought everything to a standstill. Our driver kept trying to take detours through the leafy streets of Chiswick, only to find that he was not the only one to have that particular brain wave, and in the end it turned out to be a very bad idea. It didn't help that he insisted on listening to the whole of the Russia vs Netherlands match on the car radio.
Can you imagine? Sitting in a traffic jam listening to live coverage of a football match. By the time I got home, via South London, I could easily have strangled someone. Luckily I was home alone for the whole evening.
Then, on Monday morning, I had to go from my office in Chelsea to Covent Garden, a drive that, under normal circumstances, could easily be done in half an hour. Well, double that, and add another 15 minutes! This time, it was thanks to the driver, who I am convinced had been recently lobotomised. Why else would he take every single wrong turning possible? Every time! My boss and I ended up jumping out of the car at The Strand - a road we should never have been on - and walking the rest of the way. Not good. And we had been so excited about riding in a hybrid car! The ride back to the office was just as bad. "Roadworks," said the driver, were the cause of it all. All of the city's water pipes - a lot of which dates back as far as Queen Victoria's reign - are being replaced apparently, and as a result, roads that are usually open for three lanes of traffic are now reduced to one. I imagine we have the Olympic games to thank for that.
On Tuesday, laden with bags, I caught a black cab to the office. The best thing about black cabs, of course, is that having been grilled intensely for the dreaded "knowledge" test, drivers tend to know every single one of the city's nooks and crannies, and every short cut possible. But even then, it was impossible to avoid the chaos. At one point, just in front of the British Museum, it took a whole 17 minutes to turn one corner. I even caught myself counting railings at one point!
So when I did finally make it down into the underground on Tuesday evening - having managed to avoid it for almost three days - it came as a bit of a relief. At least everything was flowing smoothly. Until, of course, I stepped into the carriage, which was more solidly packed than usual thanks to Wimbledon.
Stuck between two sweaty armpits, in a space the size of a postage stamp, in temperature that felt like somewhere in the 40s, I found myself longing to be sitting in that Mercedes on the M40, listening to football on the car radio ...
I really, really do need a holiday!
Can you imagine? Sitting in a traffic jam listening to live coverage of a football match. By the time I got home, via South London, I could easily have strangled someone. Luckily I was home alone for the whole evening.
Then, on Monday morning, I had to go from my office in Chelsea to Covent Garden, a drive that, under normal circumstances, could easily be done in half an hour. Well, double that, and add another 15 minutes! This time, it was thanks to the driver, who I am convinced had been recently lobotomised. Why else would he take every single wrong turning possible? Every time! My boss and I ended up jumping out of the car at The Strand - a road we should never have been on - and walking the rest of the way. Not good. And we had been so excited about riding in a hybrid car! The ride back to the office was just as bad. "Roadworks," said the driver, were the cause of it all. All of the city's water pipes - a lot of which dates back as far as Queen Victoria's reign - are being replaced apparently, and as a result, roads that are usually open for three lanes of traffic are now reduced to one. I imagine we have the Olympic games to thank for that.
On Tuesday, laden with bags, I caught a black cab to the office. The best thing about black cabs, of course, is that having been grilled intensely for the dreaded "knowledge" test, drivers tend to know every single one of the city's nooks and crannies, and every short cut possible. But even then, it was impossible to avoid the chaos. At one point, just in front of the British Museum, it took a whole 17 minutes to turn one corner. I even caught myself counting railings at one point!
So when I did finally make it down into the underground on Tuesday evening - having managed to avoid it for almost three days - it came as a bit of a relief. At least everything was flowing smoothly. Until, of course, I stepped into the carriage, which was more solidly packed than usual thanks to Wimbledon.
Stuck between two sweaty armpits, in a space the size of a postage stamp, in temperature that felt like somewhere in the 40s, I found myself longing to be sitting in that Mercedes on the M40, listening to football on the car radio ...
I really, really do need a holiday!