I’m currently watching the film the Notebook, and it has possibly one of the worst and cringe-worthy love scenes (or not, so it seems) of any film. This really is of no consequence to my post, but I couldn’t let it pass without acknowledgment.

I’m not quite sure when my weekend truly began, but I was certainly awoken early on Saturday morning to the delightful, or not, sound of vehicles akin only to road sweepers. It turns out that, in all their wisdom, the Highways Agency has decided to re-tarmac the road outside my flat on two consecutive weekends. This process begins at around 7.00am on a Saturday morning with the beeps of a reversing JCB, the groan of a tarmac roller and the flashing lights of all wretched vehicles imaginable. I mean? Isn’t a girl allowed any beauty sleep these days. I’d only got to bed at 3.30am too, so it wasn’t as though I was happy to be awoken at that time. And my head hurt!

I suppose it is only fitting that the last event of my weekend (bar, of course, watching this awful film) involved the road. I was traveling back from seeing Ollie and got stuck in a traffic jam on the way back into London. Suddenly the traffic came to a standstill on the A40. There was an accident ahead and we weren’t moving anywhere. Instead, people got out of cars, had a smoke, called people on their mobiles and chatted to people in neighboring cars. It was wonderfully British. Everyone in a twenty-minute queue, one small moment of sharing lives, and then onwards into anonymity.