En route

I have only once managed to drive to Swindon station unscathed so when the Googlemaps voice on the hire-car passenger seat says, 'At the next roundabout, the Magic Roundabout...' I yell long and loud, 'Noooooooooooooo'.

I had no idea that the Friday-afternoon-clogged-traffic-renegotiated route was going to take me to that notorious large roundabout made up of five, or possibly six, smaller satellite roundabouts but the Googlevoice is oblivious to my anguish and carries on telling me to take the second exit, go round to the right, take the first exit then the second exit to County Road. The Magic Roundabout is bad enough if you have an experienced Zen Swindonite sitting next to you pointing in real time and going, 'right, straight, left, that way', but alone, already stressed in the knowledge that Swindon station, wherever it might turn out to be, repels all comers, and that before that you have to find a road that will absolutely definitely, not have a name sign, even if hypothetically you might have time to read it, is, is... Where was I? Oh yes, trying to cope with Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder... ah, I seem to be stopped on the first mini roundabout and causing other people to stop... oh, look, maybe that's the second one that I want... inch forward... wait a moment... from what I think I recall she said my escape route might just be that one and even if it isn't I just need to get off, oh look, blow me down there's a roadsign and it says... What? County Road? I've emerged?

I'm supposed to be picking up Ex (and, separately, Secondborn) at Swindon station so I try to phone him (handsfree, for the record) to say I'm nearly there, in a minuscule red Aygo. No answer, no answer, no answer and suddenly I'm right in front of Swindon station but the only vehicles allowed here seem to be buses and taxis, so where is the short stay car park? Oh look, there's Ex, yell, well, he doesn't hear well, doesn't know the colour or make of the hire car I'm driving, and isn't expecting me to be right here. Yell again, a bus beeps its horn, open the door, yell again, bus-beep, he walks over startled, "jump in, fast, put the bag on the back seat, quick, I'm stopped in a bus lane", where's the short-stay car park?, beep, close the door, I'll definitely get an ANPR ticket for this.

I find the short-stay car park, though there seems to be nowhere for cars to stay. I need a pee. Somehow Ex knows that the loo is on platform 3 and somehow the ticket barriers are open. I phone Secondborn, yes, she's two minutes' walk away. Why is there no sign to the loos? She phones me, I miss the call, I'm walking back and phone her again then spot her at the car stashing her bag. Rendezvous achieved.

Deep breath. On to collect Firstborn at his workplace in Bristol except that, in the meantime, Ex has seen the state of the traffic and agreed with Firstborn that he'll get a train to Bristol Parkway and we'll pick him up there.

Of course, after the M4 traffic jam we miss the turning for Bristol Parkway but Secondborn becomes our navigator and calmly takes me down the M32 to a roundabout, back up again and round several more roundabouts to the station and look! There is Firstborn!

I am no longer fit to drive but I've put him on the car-hire insurance and he is fine about taking over so I spend the next two hours gradually recovering on the back seat and taking over navigation which, towards the end of our route, involves both following Goooglemaps and reading instructions from our host-without-data-signal about which bit of the Googlemaps route to ignore.

We arrive - yes, finally we arrive - in deep darkness under bright stars. It is 6½ hours since I collected the car from the car-hire place but we are here. We are welcomed and we are fed. And I am glad that I brought so many bottles of wine.