the motorway is a lonely place

I left a relatively sleepy town and headed for a busier city. I enjoyed the stomach turns I experienced as I thought back to my time with the lads. I have never enjoyed spending so much time doing so little. And if I am honest, I started to miss them already.

As I looked over my shoulder to check for traffic approaching on the slip road I noticed a cigarette butt crushed into the door handle. Something that would have usually sent me over the edge actually gave me moment of happiness. I could picture Bertie wilfully not even discreetly, damaging my property. Instead of fury, I smiled. Each stain or rip of the interior of my car now held history. I was driving a future collector’s item. Like John Lennon’s Rolls Royce, this car could soon be worth more money than David Beckham’s hair products.

The motorway is a lonely place interrupted by occasional bad drivers and that moment of panic when you think you will not make it into the correct lane to pull off at the junction you need. I would always have my memories of the time spent with mONKEYs fOREHEAd. The drinking, the smoking, the laughing, the smoking, the drinking and the smoking. Not for getting the drinking. I knew that I would have to move on. Write this up and move on to the next project.

As time does, it flew by for the journey home. Before I knew it, I was back in my hometown, well, city. It was as busy as usual, so as I sat in the accustomed traffic jam I pictured my family home. For some reason I usually expect things to look different when I come home. It might be because I have changed that I expect everything around me to have changed. Things do not change, people do. Although in saying that, the extra car on the drive was certainly a change. Not a change for the better it turned out.

belly full and broad grin

I got up marginally earlier and put on my clothes following a steaming shower. In preparation of my early start I had packed everything I could last night. Adding my toiletries to the top of my case I took one last glance around the hotel room double-checked the bedside cabinet and wardrobe and then pushed my key into the now stretched back pocket of my jeans.

I joined the throw of fellow marginally early risers in the hotel dining area for a full English breakfast, one of the reasons for my now ample filled jeans. I helped myself to the complimentary glass of fresh fruit juice by filling a glass, swigging it back and then toping it prior to finding a seat. The room brimmed with the smell of warm bread and cooking meat. A hum of businesspersons could be heard over the large screen television that was attached to the far wall. Smartly dressed folk updated the interested few on the news topics of the day. It would appear that they had few more lines on the exact same stories as yesterday.

The waiter brought a choice of coffee and tea. His broken Polish accent was pleasant unlike the stewed coffee I selected. He motioned that I could start to gather my foodstuffs and fill my face. Nothing was going to faze me today. I was on my way home.

Whilst tucking into hot lamp warmed eggs and oil soaked meat I mused over the last few weeks. The time I had spent with mONKEYs fOREHEAd would never soon be forgotten. Neither would the amount of taped interviews and notes I had to now assemble into a regular feature within the magazine. I drew slight attention to myself when I sniggered at the idea that I had considered leaving my family to join the band. Now my greatest priority was how long I was going to kiss my wife and hug my daughter.

I smiled at the waiter as I left the table to make my way to the reception desk. I handed in my key and received a bill. With a quick payment and a securely sought receipt, I made my way to the car park. With belly full and broad grin I got into my car and drove home. This was to be the last time I was this happy and it would be a long time before I was this happy again.