I'd taken a train from Portsmouth to Blackpool to buy a van
and 30 minutes after buying it, I'd rolled it on a motorway slip road outside Preston. A teary, bleary night being interviewed by the plod (no tax, no insurance, fake MOT) led to me standing outside Charnock Richards motorway services, penniless, hungry, a bit shaken and hundreds of miles from home.

I borrowed a biro and scrawled "SOUTH" onto a bit of old cardboard, and stood in the drizzle hoping for some sympathy, which came in the glorious shape of a Fire Engine. A BRAND NEW fire engine, with the plastic still on the sheets. It was being delivered from Lancashire to Birmingham by a surly old bloke who endlessly chewed toffees while telling me how stupid I'd been with my van. After the bollocking, he told me war stories; he'd been in Suez when the "fuzzy wuzzies" all kicked up.

He dropped me off the other side of Birmingham, having used the blues-and-twos to get through the traffic, where a luxury coach driver picked me up. Inviting me to help myself to the champagne and salmon sandwiches he still had left over from the tour, I reclined next to him and gorged myself while he regaled me with tales of Northern Ireland during the troubles; he'd been based out there and lost all his mates when their Land Rover was ambushed. Seems all long-distance drivers are ex military.

We parted ways at a service station in Oxford, and I re-drew my sign to say "Portsmouth". A trucker offered me a route to Southampton, so I hauled my way up into his cab and listened to his stories of Bosnia, and his time over there cleaning up the bodies and finding mass graves.

He left me at a petrol station, 30 miles from home, where I stood huddled and freezing, lashed by the Solent rain, until a middle-aged woman offered me a ride in her tiny Peugeot. She asked me where I was heading, and it turned out we were almost neighbours; she lived two streets away from me.

As I buckled up, I asked "I'm not being funny, but you're not ex-military, are you?"

She snorted with laughter. "Of course not."

"..."

"but my Daddy was a Major, I grew up on an air base in West Germany."
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 6:43, 4 replies)

Off track?
I'd taken a train from Portsmouth to Blackpool and 30 minutes after buying it, I'd rolled it on a motorway slip road outside Preston. A teary, bleary night being interviewed by the plod (no tax, no insurance, fake MOT) led to me standing outside Charnock Richards motorway services, penniless, hungry, a bit shaken and hundreds of miles from home.

I'm not surprised that you were done by the cops, but how the hell did you get a train onto a slip road of the M6?
(ubergeekian, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 7:49, closed)

I suspect four words are missing:
"...to buy a van"

I'm guessing this from seven words which appear in the second paragraph: "...how stupid I'd been with my van."
( flake has nothing against your right leg, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 8:14, closed)

Not that hard to figure out. Before I read the van part I assumed it was a vehicle of some sort, thats all that matters to the story.
(tyrellsOwl, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 13:16, closed)

I gave up at this point,
writing it off as one of those long, made up yarns, that populate this board.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 8:41, closed)

Actually worth a click
Just because it initially reads like he bought a train and took it for a drive on a motorway.
(ParaSitius is an Optimistic Pessimist, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 8:54, closed)

I just
don't get it.
(dchurch bah, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 9:25, closed)

Ha ha. Next time give it a quick scan before posting!
(Stiltzkin, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 9:45, closed)

this is what you get for bleary-eyed 7am posting.
four words added
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Fri 15 Jul 2011, 15:45, closed)