Three Men On Tour: 30

We had to drag George forcibly from his bed.

“But my head hurts,“ he said. That’s the thing about George – always thinking of himself. There he was, wasting our day with his hangover when he had places to visit and articles to write. In the end we lured him out with the promise that he could choose our itinerary.

“The Waterways Museum,“ said George as soon as we were stood by the car.

“Don’t be ridiculous,“ said Harry. “We went there yesterday. It’s miles away. We’ve got to be in Langford for the Fayre by 12. Besides, if we’re going back to Gloucester we should check out the Jet Museum.“

“So I get to choose the itinerary as long as it’s where you want to go?“ said George crossly. “We never got to walk up the canal and see the countryside. I said I wanted to do that yesterday and you said we needed to get to the hotel for check in and I’d have to come back another time.“

“Come on guys,“ I said, trying to be peacemaker. “Why don’t we do something you both want to do? I’ll even let you go and look at a bridge or something.“

Two venomous gazes turned my way.

“That’s tomorrow,“ snapped Harry. “Today, I want to see jet planes.“

In the end we decided to let the Sat-Nav decide. We’d already wasted enough time arguing: if we stood any chance of getting back for the Country Fayre we would have to base our destination on the length of the journey. From the passenger seat, I plugged the cable into the cigarette lighter, while Harry fired up the engine.

“Is it working?“ asked George from the back seat.

“Give it a moment.“

We all sat and watched the spinning hourglass. Eventually, the display lit up.

“Okay,“ said George, “now put in the postcode.“

“That’s what I’m doing,“ said Harry, irritably. Taking the crumpled flyer from George’s outstretched grasp he began tapping at the screen. It took several tries on each button. A haze of scratches showed where many fingers had been before. Painstakingly, Harry navigated the menu, selecting New Destination, then City/Postcode, then Postcode.

“What’s taking so long?“ grumped George.

“It’s not registering,“ snapped Harry, as he stabbed at the Postcode button. The Sat-Nav wobbled under his onslaught.

“Here, let me,“ insisted George, trying to lean forward into the front. I found myself shoved into a window.

Harry fended George off. “I know what I’m doing,“ he said as he smeared his finger round the screen, looking for a point that actually registered. The screen flickered, and Harry looked momentarily triumphant before peering at the display. Hastily, he hit the back button.

“Right, let’s try that again,“ he muttered, clearly hoping we wouldn’t hear him. Furtively, he stabbed at the screen, then grinned and began punching in a postcode.

“Acquiring satellites,“ said the Sat-Nav.

“Don’t you have a map?“ I asked George.

“This is faster,“ insisted Harry. We watched the spinning hourglass some more.

After what seemed like forever, the screen sprang to life. Slowly, we watched a pink trail being overlaid on grey and yellow roads. Despite myself I let out a small cheer. Harry’s expression of relief made it clear that the only reason he wasn’t joining in was to spite George.

“Right,“ he said. “32 minutes there, 44 minutes back. That gives us an hour to spare.“

“Okey dokey,“ said George. “Now if you just clear the directions, you can put in your postcode and we can compare journeys.“

“Clear the route?“ said Harry, looking at the Sat-Nav with unconcealed malice.

“Yes,“ said George. “We’ve done mine, now we need to do yours. I’m sure it won’t take a minute.“

Harry stared at the Sat-Nav. It sat there passively, radiating unconcern while a small vein throbbed beneath Harry’s left eye.