Start at the beginning
Our journey home, Sunday, has to have been the worst ever.
France was fine, as it always is, even in the rain. You know, my car ticked over to 15000 miles on the way back, and at a rough estimate 6000 of those miles have been driven on French roads. Crazy, but true.
It started to get bad at Les Coquelles, the channel tunnel port. There were mega security checks (prolly because Israel have assassinated some geezer. Again). So there was a queue at the check-in, then a queue to get into the carpark, and then 5 or 6 queues bottlenecking into one to get out of the car park*; then a queue at French customs; then a queue at British customs (which are now on the French side). But in spite of the crowds of cars, they only had two of a possible 5 lanes open. So it was like being in Tescos on a Saturday with not enough checkouts open.
Finally back on British soil, we headed up the M20, everything seemed to be fine. But then we saw the 40 mph matrix signs, which are an indication that you're about to dream of doing even half of 40 mph. Junction 9, the M20 is closed due to an accident. So then we pootled across country to get to Junction 8. Again, all seemed to be going well, until we got to the other side of the Dartford tunnel, and hit slow moving traffic, all the way round to Junction 21, the M1. Plus the roads are inundated with rain and you can't see because of the spray.
Took us an hour and a half longer to get home than it should have. It wouldn't be so bad, but whatever time we arrive home, whatever day of the week, the contrast between French and British motorways is just intense. ~It was a fookin Sunday evening for chrissake. Where the fuck had everybody been? Out spending money they don't have, probably.
*I call this the Cora syndrome, after a particularly bad experience in a Supermarket car park one French bank holiday. I don't like to talk about it.
France was fine, as it always is, even in the rain. You know, my car ticked over to 15000 miles on the way back, and at a rough estimate 6000 of those miles have been driven on French roads. Crazy, but true.
It started to get bad at Les Coquelles, the channel tunnel port. There were mega security checks (prolly because Israel have assassinated some geezer. Again). So there was a queue at the check-in, then a queue to get into the carpark, and then 5 or 6 queues bottlenecking into one to get out of the car park*; then a queue at French customs; then a queue at British customs (which are now on the French side). But in spite of the crowds of cars, they only had two of a possible 5 lanes open. So it was like being in Tescos on a Saturday with not enough checkouts open.
Finally back on British soil, we headed up the M20, everything seemed to be fine. But then we saw the 40 mph matrix signs, which are an indication that you're about to dream of doing even half of 40 mph. Junction 9, the M20 is closed due to an accident. So then we pootled across country to get to Junction 8. Again, all seemed to be going well, until we got to the other side of the Dartford tunnel, and hit slow moving traffic, all the way round to Junction 21, the M1. Plus the roads are inundated with rain and you can't see because of the spray.
Took us an hour and a half longer to get home than it should have. It wouldn't be so bad, but whatever time we arrive home, whatever day of the week, the contrast between French and British motorways is just intense. ~It was a fookin Sunday evening for chrissake. Where the fuck had everybody been? Out spending money they don't have, probably.
*I call this the Cora syndrome, after a particularly bad experience in a Supermarket car park one French bank holiday. I don't like to talk about it.
posted by Anonymous at
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
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