Was out driving this weekend, down the rolling hills to a little place called Ashburton somewhere in the deepest West Country. Out of the blue my old work pal, “The Professional” sent an email round announcing that he’d decided to do the right thing and marry the teutonic girl of his dreams. It seemed like a good chance to duck out of the big smoke for a day or so, clear the head, before confusing it again with beverages, and catch up with some old friends.
And indeed it was. Nice to crank the car up to 90 and see the countryside blur past at high speed. Good to stop for a snack in a village pub, have a joke with the local alcoholics and move on again, dodging Massey Fergusons and scraping the hedgerows. Excellent news when you just about manage to grab the only cab in town, draped in crisp suit and obligatory pink shirt/tie combination. Proceed to spend an evening investigating the qualities of real ale, soft-rock tribute bands, quiche and generally spectating in the obligatory first dance / speech umms and ahhs.
The Professional looked deeply contented as did his new wife and I generally felt a sense of right with the world, trading witticisms with the assembled crew and finding ample opportunity to throw a few erratic shapes, sliding around on the polished floor with my new shoes, just another drunken suburbanite out for a country break. The next day I felt rough, but on my return I felt rested. Ready to wreak new havoc, I came up with some interesting new ideas quickly, which reminded me of something important, which amazingly I had forgotten about: Breaks really are a good thing.