Best laid plans
I had everything ready. The new stage legs adapted so they didn’t
wobble in their poorly crafted sockets, a few things given a ‘cat’s lick and a promise’ of black paint, trailer
packed and double idiot checked that nothing was forgotten. (How did I become such a proppy performer?) I had moved the lorry so I could use my car
to engineer the trailer out of the workshop.
All ready. Back into the lorry to
hitch up and go. Turn the key. Nothing but the ominous click of a stuck
solenoid. It had happened a couple of times earlier in the year but had then
become magically, mysteriously, or probably just fortuitously unstuck and
allowed me to carry on, foolishly ignoring the obvious need for further
investigation, remedy and repair. This time it didn’t unstick.
I called Autohome, my
commercial equivalent of the AA only to find that the soonest anyone could come
would be two hours. I had previously waited
five for them so I couldn’t wait that long.
A six hour drive in prospect and a long day the following day setting
up. I called my doughty guy. The wonderful Paul unfazed by anything Travis. From NPC Commercials in Llay who do my
servicing and MOTs. He was there within
half an hour, tapped a few things, started it, showed me how to short circuit it from
underneath it if it happened again (“Make sure it’s not in gear and be careful
of the radiator fan”) and he was gone.
It’s people like that I want on my side.
The uneventful but long
drive got me to Portsmouth and my overnight stay of choice - the D Day Museum
carpark on the front in Southsea. A usually quiet and deserted car park at night.
I whiled away the hours listening
to Philip Pullman’s The Ruby in the Smoke, with a finely crafted performance by
Anton Lesser. Phillip Pullman is a man
of my generation (he’s 71) and also grew up on Dan Dare and Boy’s Own. His stories have a tension and immediacy
about them with chapters like an episode from the front page of The Eagle. The
Ruby in the Smoke is a short read by Audible standards, but I didn’t mind
splashing out a whole Audible credit on the six and a half hours of solid
gold. Reminiscent occasionally of the
world of Dickens’ or of Mayhew’s London, the story took me from seedy opium
dens in Wapping to the peaceful charm of the Oxford spires. His characters are either
endearing or evil with very little in between, in the everlasting traditions of
Dan Dare and the Mekon. I occasionally felt we were about to enter the other
world of His Dark Materials, Pullman’s superb saga, but this one remained
firmly in the world of Victorian reality. I loved it and it took me completely away
from the boredom of the long road to Portsmouth and the worry about starting
the lorry the following day.
The nights were
particularly cold. My lovely wood burner
had to be kept full of logs and coal and after a while it began to feel at
least comfortable. By 3.00 am on Thursday
morning though, the fire was completely burned out and the cold was coming
through. I’ve perfected the art of
lighting the fire. I reckon I can have
it done and back in bed under three minutes.
Back to bed enjoying the growing warm as the lorry heats up warm and
toasty.
The next morning of course
the lorry wouldn’t start so under I went, as warned, out of gear and avoiding the
radiator fan, and with pyrotechnic panache it burst into action and I arrived
at the dockyard ready for set up day, the first time out for the new stage
legs which worked fine despite my reservations about their fabrication. Back to the carpark (this time it started on the key) via Lidl for
nosh and an early night.
Just after I fell asleep,
it must have been about 1.00, I was woken by a car doing the screechy tires
thing around my quiet Southsea carpark.
Testing the testosterone. Bloody idiot. But nothing by comparison with
what was to take place the following night.
The first day came and went,
always a quiet dress rehearsal sort of day but because I’d been up very early
to finish the set up I came back to the lorry pretty exhausted and ready for a
great night’s sleep.
I thought it was odd to
see the refreshment van set up in the corner of the carpark. Ominous. I had a meal in the lorry and settled down
for a relaxing evening by the fire. Then
it happened.
I have spoken and written
a great deal about the romance of living on the road, of the enormous pleasure I
derive form living comfortably but simply wherever I find myself. This was a night to remind myself that it can
also be anything but.
With half an hour of 7.30
the carpark was full of cars. There must
have been three hundred of them. And their
occupants had not come to enjoy a pleasant stroll along Southsea
Promenade. No they had come to rev their
engines, do screech starts and back fire as loudly as they could to the
exuberant encouragement and approbation of all those present. The louder the
bangs the more they cheered. It went on until after midnight. It was obviously a clandestine meeting of those
young petrol heads, but it was also obviously very well organised. I really could
have done without it. Eventually
I took a sleeping pill, put in earplugs and tried to pretend, unsuccessfully,
that I couldn’t hear it.
The romance of the
road. Hmmm.
All the best from a road
near you,
Mr Alexander