The wrong turn

The second wrong turn was the one that really got Jason in trouble. He had done some quick calculations in his head and figured that if he made a couple of quick turns, he’d end up back on the right road, but of course that would only work if the roads were a grid. They weren’t, and he was lost. He knew he should have taken the Tube, he knew that driving in London, even early on a Sunday morning with little traffic, when he’d only been in the country a fortnight and didn’t have a street directory was insane, he should have even coughed up the minicab fare – although this would have cost him a fortnight in wages and meant God knows how long until he could feed the metre and get hot water again. Well, luke warm. But instead, he took Tom’s very generous offer to borrow his car. And here he was – her plane would touch down in ten minutes, allow maybe half an hour for luggage collection and ten, no fifteen to get through customs. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he wouldn’t make it. He came to a large roundabout and a sign with an airport symbol and an arrow right. He prayed he wouldn’t end up in Stanstead, and turned right. Suddenly, sunlight filled the car and he felt like time slowed. He was driving across a river, across a bridge, but it was not just any river, it was the mighty Thames, and not just any bridge but the magnificent Tower bridge. He took a deep breath and knew that somehow, London would make everything all right.

 

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