Piskied off

At Bodmin, the road took an abrupt lurch to the right and up a hill. As the alternative was the town centre, I screeched round the corner and away.

Had the local piskies turned the signpost? Had they my best interests in their little faerie hearts, or wre they just out to make mischief: For they sent me, unwittingly, into the night in a wide, wide loop away from their bony work, back to the soft red soil of Devon.

I should have seen the signs - well, of course, I did see the signs - to Plymouth, no less - but I ignored the evidence of my tiring eyes. Ignored what they were trying to tell me. It was only when I saw Exeter and the M5 (N) a couple of hours later, that I realised I'd made a major mistake. It was a punch in the heart, as I leant against the steering wheel, staring at the truth lit up on a giant sheet of roadside metal.

So, once again, I took the road to Plymouth, this time cheered on by a little yellow light winking cheekily at me from the dashboard. It was 2 in the morning. The world and it's petrol stations were fast aslep. I had 29 miles to go to Plymouth. Fingers crossed and 50 mph driving, and I should make it ....