I’ve mentioned before that, for a very brief part of my life, I was compelled to attend Scouts on a Thursday evening. This was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it meant missing Top of the Pops. On the other, it meant I could stay up later than usual, because by the time I got home and was ready for bed, it was around half an hour past my normal bedtime.
That time could be extended by a certain amount of dawdling on the way home. Not too much, because my parents were as aware as I was of how long it should take me to get back. It was only a mile, and I was on a bike. Even so, a bit of dallying on leaving the church hall where we met, and not taking the most direct route home, meant that I could add anything up to ten minutes to the journey.
Of course, my parents were well aware that I was doing this, and especially so after I got lost on the way home.
That’s right, I got lost. On a journey of a mile, which required me to do little more than ride over to the next road, go to the end of it and turn right, I got lost.
I still don’t really know what happened. I was taking the least direct route home, of course, and I was probably in a world of my own, cycling along with an eye on the traffic but not on where I was actually going. Before I knew it, I was in a road that I didn’t recognise.
Fortunately, it turned out that I had absent-mindedly turned the wrong way at one particular junction. I hadn’t realised and my next turn had taken me into a cul-de-sac which, despite only being a hundred yards from home, I had never been because none of my friends lived there.
Boy, did I have some explaining to do when I got home!
With thanks to Jenya for the idea