It was the closest thing I can remember to a completely wasted journey. I set off in my Ford Capri from home in Gloucestershire midway through a Sunday afternoon – when I could instead have been watching an absorbing Six Nations game on TV – in order to position myself in good time for an early Monday morning meeting in London.
Such was the importance of this meeting that the sacrifice seemed justified, and so it remained until I reached the outskirts of London – to be dead accurate, that raised a bit of the M4 just east of Heathrow airport.
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