From St Albans to south London by ancient orange Volvo estate (Rousse)

How we came to be in St Albans, I had no idea, but it was still great to bump into JB and GB there. They had also booked their anniversary meal at the same restaurant as us. Indeed, it looked like our evening was turning into a school reunion when CH (was CC) also turned up. She had barely changed, other than her hair was now dyed red and she insisted that we pronounce her name as if it were Arabic.

While it was nice to chat to my ex-classmates, I had an appointment with my online friend GG somewhere in south London. The problem, however, was that I did not have her address. In fact, I didn’t even know her real name.

When my mother appeared in an ancient Volvo estate I thought she could give me a lift to GG’s house. I jumped in amongst all the luggage and kit for a two-week fishing holiday in the Scottish highlands, squeezing myself onto the back seat next to various members of my family.

Not long after we set off the car’s engine cut out and we were brought to an abrupt halt in the slow lane of the motorway. ‘At least the rescue service will easily spot us’ I said, referring to the bright orange 1970s paintwork of the car. This really did stand out from all the dreary black, silver, and grey vehicles of 2015.

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