I decided to give Roger a holiday.
For those of you who may not be familiar with my ramblings, Roger is the bloke who lives on a satellite and gives me directions through my SatNav.
I don’t know why I thought he needed a holiday. Maybe it was the way that he could no longer pronounce the simple word “road”. He had taken to introducing a glottal stop in the middle, so it sort of sounded like “ro. Oad”.
I decided to hire Molly instead.
Molly was nice.
She had a nice gentle sexy voice, and when it came to matters like avoiding Gorey, it was a pleasure to follow her instructions.
Then we arrived in France.
The very first town we came to, there was a clatter of roundabouts in quick succession, and Molly got utterly confused. Of course I ended up in the wrong place. I had to stop the car for a bit while she calmed her nerves.
Eventually she muttered something about “women’s problems” and got me back on the straight [and it was very straight] and narrow [actually it was quite wide].
I let the matter slide until we got to the next town.
The fucking bitch got us lost again, and I had to feed her three Valium to calm her nerves.
That calmed her a bit and we managed to reach Rennes before the cow sent us off to Paris, when I’m trying to get to Poitiers. Now there is a ninety degree difference in the directions – Paris is North East, and Poitiers is South East – so that even a five year old should have found the right road.
I gave out to Molly.
She burst into tears and gave me a load of shit about the problems she is having with her boyfriend and crap like that.
I fired her.
Roger is back.
His deep manly voice of authority guided us without a flaw to our destination.
Never trust a woman.