Having not listened to the radio this morning, I was pleased at how little traffic there was on Jamaica Road. So it was an unpleasant surprise to find the Rotherhithe tunnel, my route out of London when I go East, was closed. I circled the roundabout and headed back to cross Tower Bridge. I worked in Bermondsey when I first came to London, in a boys’ school the local police called Fagin’s nursery, and I can still find my way around the back streets. But there is only one route over Tower Bridge, and after sitting in almost stationary traffic on the approach to the bridge for twenty minutes, I did a u-ey and headed home.
MasterB, who had not been that keen to get into his travel basket in the first place, was pleased. He stretched, explored the car’s interior, and then rolled luxuriantly on the grass.
I consulted Twitter, and went indoors to use the loo. Twitter told me the tunnel was due to reopen soon, but advised me to wait.
I had some lunch.
Twitter still advised me to wait.
I weeded the trunk, and reached for cherries from the tree.
Twitter told me the tunnel had reopened.
MasterB had gone AWOL. He came back after a while and settled himself under a car. I think he realised my behaviour was unusual and he didn’t want to take chances. It was a couple of hours, and a lot more cherries, before I managed to get him into the car. Had it taken longer, I should have abandoned my plans and settled for a weekend at home.
Friday afternoon is not a great time to leave town. Everyone is at it. I was in several minds and very nearly went home again. MasterB, whose crying had been sufficiently anguished to make me turn off less than a Ike from home to check and comfort him, would have doubtless rejoiced.
In contrast with the morning, we crawled along Jamaica Road and the driver of a white van behaved stereotypically. He cut me up as we went into the lane to go through the tunnel. I was mildly irritated, but generally I prefer aggressive drivers in front of me rather than nudging the boot.
Driving through the tunnel, he was in the middle of the road. Maybe he was thinking of overtaking. I kept to the twenty mile limit and watched him. He turned off at Limehouse.
It was a slow I journey, though not as bad as I had anticipated. But as we joined the dual carriageway some fifteen miles from the marina, it began to rain. Just a few drops at first. By the time we arrived it was pelting down. I know it was forecast, but I had planned to be afloat much earlier.
The Shouty Man and his wife arrived moments after I did. He’s shouting now. We trooped damply to with our bags and bits to our respective vessels. MasterB made his dissatisfaction plain when I left him in the car while I ran the engine. Their dog was more forgiving.
The rain stopped. Suddenly we had a beautiful evening. I unpacked. MasterB looked out of the windows, lay onthe floor and offered me his tummy.
Heaven is having a boat to which to retreat. Even when the Shouty Man has been shouting for twenty minutes. I can always drown him out with my audio book.