Two jumpers, three jackets, tights, kneesocks, legwarmers and a scarf that doubles up as a travel blanket would count as "enough layers", I figured. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring the most important item: my waterproof jacket.
I got to the garages at Imperial at six o' clock, and stayed for another four hours, being neither a help nor a hindrance. Once things had been greased, oiled, taken apart and cajoled back into place, it was time for a curry. I had half a tandoori chicken, which I probably would have enjoyed more if I'd been hungry. Illness does strange things to me.
We spent the night in the CGCU office, and it was one of the most uncomfortable nights of my entire life. You try sleeping on a sofa that's six inches shorter than you are, with one boyfriend but no pillow, and see how your neck feels the next morning!
It didn't help that we had to get up at quarter to six to be at the garages by six, and at Hyde Park by seven to watch the veteran vehicles start the run.
Once we'd watched Bo' leave, we hopped into Jez and started our journey to Brighton. This was comprised of six legs: three there, and three back.
"If you only do a couple of legs, do the first and the third", Rikki had told me.
Since the rain appeared to be staying away, bar the odd spot, I obediently resisted hopping into the accompanying minibus. The first leg of the journey went well- bystanders on the pavement broke into broad smiles when they saw us, waving manically and snapping photos- until it started to rain. And this wasn't a light drizzle, oh no. This was Rain Type 17, which is not the type you want when you're riding along on the side of a fire engine, minus waterproof clothing or any other type of covering. It got so bad that I was sitting there with my eyes shut because the rain was so painful, waving anyway in case I missed someone waving at us.
I'd left my handbag in Jez's side compartment. This idea turned out to be a mistake, as said side compartment is not fully waterproof: I had to throw away my sodden Tube and train maps, and my diary now needs to dry on a radiator overnight.
After the battered heart attacks masquerading as breakfast at BJ's house, I fled for the dry warmth of the minibus, where I spent the next two legs of the journey. Rikki, soaked to the bone after the second leg spent sitting in the front of Jez, followed my deserting example on the third leg. By the time we got to Brighton, it was about six hours after we'd initially set off, and Rikki's gloves still weren't dry yet. None of his clothing was, come to think of it.
We didn't spend all that long in Brighton. Amy phoned while I was at BJ's to say that she wasn't coming because the weather was awful, so I divided my time at the seaside between seeing Rikki's mum and aunt, and the pub. Rikki's mum seems to like me, which is obviously good, and enjoyed her impromptu drive round the block on the side of Jez. We nearly reversed over a gay man, who complained.
"Typical poofter", said Rikki's mum, with the merest hint of political incorrectness. "Always making a fuss, they are."
The weather cleared up in the early afternoon, so I chose to ride on Jez for the journey home. The fourth leg took us through Devil's Dyke, which Lawrence made out to be a lot more scary than it actually is, and ended up at a pub. I got chatted up by an old man, who bought me a Baileys and expressed admiration that I willingly rode on the side of a vintage fire engine.
It occurs to me that my eating and drinking habits have severely degenerated since I started university. Take today: breakfast at six was a Nutella sandwich and a carton of juice, brunch at half ten was a steak sandwich (it was that or BJ's breakfast, and deep-fried haggis isn't really my thing) and a shot of whiskey, my lunch was two slices of cake, my dinner was treacle tart with cream and the aforementioned Baileys, and I had a glass of wine at eleven o' clock. How long before my clothes start bursting at the seams?
I parted company with the Motor Club after the fifth leg to Coulsdon South station, for I planned to get a train to Croydon, a tram to Beckenham, and crash Alex's party on my way home. Rikki was still soaked by this point, so I lent him one of my jumpers. I bet he was glad about my tendency to buy men's clothing for the top half of my body.
It was then that I also parted company with my fingerless gloves, for I lost one somewhere in the minibus and threw its twin in there to join it in the afterlife. Benny might be pleased about this: he always disapproved of my fingerless gloves.
My epic journey to Beckenham passed without incident, and I found Alex's house with ease: it was the only one with all the lights on, music blaring, and the front door open. I was disappointed with how un-freaked-out he seemed about me turning up with no warning. After all, how would you react if one of your Twitter followers met you in real life for the first time by showing up on your doorstep while you were having a party? Granted, I was invited to this party on Facebook, but I still freely admit that it's a bit weird.
Weirdness aside, I spent a fun half-hour there meeting some new and interesting people. If Alex's next party is not so poorly-timed, I expect I'll be seeing them again.
The 358 bus driver refused to stop for some reason, so the 194 took me home instead. My parents had tried to phone me five times over the course of the night, clearly not realising that hearing a ringing phone is impossible when you're speeding along A-roads at 40mph. I was not looking forward to seeing them, and sure enough, I was immediately asked to provide my spare phone number and Rikki's address. Oh, for fuck's sake.
On the plus side, I do have a lot of washing that needs to be done. Living at home does have its uses.
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