Go to his house?


There is only one thing left to do in a situation like this.

I have to venture into enemy grounds and explain what my MSN signing-out-not-calling-him issue was all about. Sure, he would brand me as clinically insane, but that's a step above "my dumb ex-girlfriend.

In the car, I fire up the ignition, and turn on my SatNav. I tap my fingernails on the dashboard as it boots itself up. When the menu comes up, I tap impatiantly on New Destination and scroll through endless options.

I eventually settle on jabbing in his post code. I know it well enough, or I should, seeing all those hopeless letters I sent to him last April.

Finished with the SatNav, I set of, cruising slowly down my road and then pulling out onto the main road.

Driving along for a while, I get bored and flick on the radio. My head nods just out of time with Aerosmith as I turn onto the M25. Brainlessly, I follow my SatNav for forty mintues before I realise that generally it takes five mintues to get to his house.

I jab zoom out, and my eyes trace the wiggly blue line in horror. It's taking me into the middle of no where.

I look out of the car window apprehensivley.

Am in the middle of nowhere, naturally.

My eyes are pulled to the fuel gage. The needle hovers just above the threatening hell of the red "E".

Not nearly enough to get back home again.

The End

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