All Night Long

It was two in the morning and I'd made it round Paris and out onto the 'autoroute' towards Orleans. I had told Debrah that I'd stop for a couple of hours and get some sleep because she was worried about me having to do the journey, through the night, on my own. The stars were shining as brightly as I'd ever seen them but there was no moon and it was pitch black outside. My driving seat cocoon was illuminated by the faintly glowing dials on the dashboard in front of me, was snugly warm at a steady 21 degrees as set on the aircon temperature dial and was filled by the reassuringly knowledgeable and comforting voice of Andrew Marr recounting the History of Modern Britain, the CD of which I had picked up at the Channel Tunnel terminal to help me pass the solitary hours on the road.

As I pulled into the bright lights and neon glow of the service station I noticed the ice encrusted on the cars on the back of the transporter parked near the entrance. I glanced at the outside temperature gauge - it read minus six. As I turned the engine off I realised that the heating would stop too. In the car alongside were two people with blankets draped over their heads - it was impossible to tell if they were warm and asleep or dead - they looked dead, as if they had been given their last rights and a blanket gently pulled up over their heads to protect their dignity. I put the little blow up pillow against the side of my head, leant into it, closed my eyes and tried to sleep.

Ten minutes later, I was still awake, I was uncomfortable and I was cold. I reached for my scarf and phone and wallet and went inside for a short sharp slug of caffeine and decided I should press on through the night.

The plan had been to drive down to Carcassonne together, sharing the driving. We had a load of stuff to bring over which we couldn't bring on the plane - paint, floor stain, putty, books, vases, ipod docks, wall lights, bed linen and much much more. So much in fact, that by the time I had finished packing the car the front passenger seat and every other space was full - there was no room for a co-driver. As it was, Debrah had been struck down with a flu type ailment over the weekend whilst we were doing a pre Christmas round of parent visits in Kent and West Sussex and, although she was at last showing signs of recovery, she was in no state to drive or sit in a car overnight throughout the length of France. It was decided that she should stay and get another good night's sleep and fly down the next day using the ticket she had booked several months earlier.

So it was that I set out alone mid Tuesday afternoon for the 700 mile journey south.

The first three miles took me an hour and two and half hours into my journey I was still north of the Thames - which is pretty remarkable considering that it must be less than five miles in a straight line. It was London gridlock - accidents on the A12, A13, M25 and North Circular, combined with Christmas and rush hour traffic had bought everything across the city to a virtual standstill and there was nothing that I could do about it. I eventually reached the Channel Tunnel an hour after my booked train had departed and an hour before the next train that I could take - two hours lost already.

I decided to prepare myself for the ordeal ahead. To add to the cheese and ham sandwiches and tomatoes that I had brought with me I added a Ginsters pasty (proper car food), a bag of crisps, a Mars bar, a bag of Haribo Tangfastics (essential on long distance drives), a bottle of Coke and a bottle of water. I had my passport to hand for customs and my credit card for the toll booths and, of course, Andrew Marr to help the miles disappear.

The first two hours to Paris were pretty easy, the next two not so bad. After my aborted sleep, adrenalin took care of the next hour and a half - after that it became a bit of a slog - my stops for coffee and a hit of cold air became more frequent, the traffic thinned to a trickle in both directions and the few people at each service station looked weirder and weirder - maybe I looked a bit weird too, in their eyes.

Just south of Cahors the sky suddenly, instantly, changed from pitch black - dawn was on it's way. By now I was stopping every 45 minutes. I did a quick calculation of time and kilometres and realised I was going to arrive at Toulouse at about 8.30am - brilliant - slap bang in the middle of another rush hour - the last thing I needed now was hatchback hotshots changing lanes at 60 mph without indicating or caring. I slugged back the last of the Coca Cola and chewed up another tangy crocodile.

I had to stop once more after Toulouse and so finally arrived chez Carcassonne sometime around ten in the morning - some seventeen hours after setting out from London.

Ideally, I would have parked the car and gone straight to bed but that didn't happen. Ideally, I would have parked the car without scraping the front nearside wing against the narrowest part of the archway where the electricity meters are housed, but that didn't happen either. I was beyond caring really - but, actually, I'm very pissed off with myself for driving seven hundred miles through the night without falling asleep or hitting anything and then, at the last minute, making such a schoolboy error.

I had missed Debrah's calls, the first checking I was still alive and the second leaving a message for the policeman who was pulling my limp body out of the wreck of our car! - I'm pretty sure that means she cares and loves me. If that's the case, then I'm a very lucky man.