From heaven. In hell.

So a four hour drive to sunny Scunny ends up with me inadvertently booked into the Forest Pines golf resort and spa, a tremendous place jam-packed to the gunwales full of the kind of gammon-faced blowhards I'd cross entire continents to avoid given half the chance.

On the plus side, it's absolutely pissing down and that's now three times in a week I've travelled away from home to be met with diluvian conditions at my destination. I should hire myself out.