Here's my number one pet peeve.
I used to live in London. My family lives in Walsall. I used to drive up to see them on the weekend every so often. Every time, WITHOUT FAIL, my mom, my sister or both would ask "...and what time do you think you'll arrive then, dear?"

Now, bearing in mind this is a Friday night, I have to get home from work (through rush hour on the tube), get changed, grab my stuff, and then try to drive out of London on the A1 (rush hour again), up the M1 (rush hour, constant roadworks) and along the M6 (ditto). It's a journey that has taken me one-and-three-quarter hours (best ever time) and four-and-three-quarter hours (worst ever time).

Given the disparity between those two extremes, how the shuddering bleeding buggering fuck am I supposed to know what time I'm going to arrive? I'm not Mystic sodding Meg. Seriously, it's like trying to second-guess quantum fucking physics. And then to cap it off, if I don't arrive within, say, two hours of setting off, what do they do?

THEY CALL ME. ON MY MOBILE. WHILE I'M ON THE GODDAMN CUNTING MOTORWAY. TO ASK WHERE I AM.

WHERE THE FUCK DO THEY THINK I AM? TAKING A WEE BREAK TO SIGHTSEE AROUND FUCKING PARIS?

FOR FUCK'S SAKE.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 2 May 2008, 13:44, Reply)