In recent weeks, my journey to work has been starting at 5.30am with a 110-mile drive from Weymouth to Reading. One thing I've sort-of-noticed on my arrival is the complete loss of the section between Andover and Basingstoke. "Complete loss" as in no memory of a twenty mile stretch of A303. I suppose that's Hampshire for you.
At first, I thought I was merely asleep at the wheel. After all, this foot-to-the-floor dual carriageway comes after about eighty minutes of technical driving along single carriageway roads, and I relax into something less demanding, going BAAAAAARN! past all the forty ton Tesco trucks I've been stuck behind since Salisbury. And who on Earth could blame me? I could drive that stretch of road with my eyes shut, and by way of experiment, I'll give it a go this afternoon.
However, regaining consciousness as I sailed past the Basingstoke Tower of Terror this morning, my caffeine-riddled brain, on checking that I still had a functioning car and the requisite number of limbs, realized that no time had passed at all since Andover, and this can only mean one thing.
Zillons from the Planet Tharg have been routinely picking me up at the end of the A343, disguised as scantily-clad hitchhikers, performing evil, unnecessary surgery on me and wanton acts of other-worldly lust, before dumping me in the arsehole of the South: Basingstoke.
It's logical when you think about it. And also explains why I've been forced to go out and by a catering-sized tube of Anusol.
I want to believe*.
* That I am not mad.