I went to west London on Saturday after an aborted picnic was relocated to the basement of a pub. As you do. Much fun was had and I met some funny, nice and actually-quite-fit people. And some other bloggers (ha, I am funny).

As midnight approached I left a group who were heading for a curry as I needed to make my way back to Paddington to get my last train home. It was probably no more than a twenty minute walk, but I was a bit drunk so decided to get the tube. I headed to the platform as I fiddled with my new phone, and continued to do so in the near empty carriage.

The train reached its first stop, which I had expected to be Bayswater, but to my surprise, I was definitely looking at a sign that read High Street Kensington. This was either the most elaborately planned practical joke anyone has ever played on the tube, or, like an utter twat, I had gone the wrong way.

If only this were to be the only time I would call myself a twat in the next few hours.

The tube trains had now stopped in the other direction, so I headed towards the surface aware that I now had forty-five minutes to complete a probable thirty minute walk to Paddington. At this point in the story it is probably worth pointing out that I do not have a very good sense of direction. Before the advent of Satellite navigation I would regularly get lost on simple journeys, so my decision to head off on a brisk walk in the ‘general direction’ of Paddington was, in hindsight, not my best.

As the rain came down, and not a single sign-post mentioned Paddington, I started looking out for a cab, but none were forthcoming. I tried to look at a map on my phone, but it would not load. I continued to walk, now slightly concerned about missing my train. After what felt like a few days I reached a place called Princess Gate on Hyde Park, and finally had success in loading the map on my phone. I let out a slight whimper when I realised I was absolutely fucking miles from where I thought I was.

I figured I had about two miles to cover in the five minutes before my last train left the station. For some reason I began to run, but then I worked out that all this would mean is that I’d arrive sweaty, and still miss my train. So I walked instead.

An hour later, when I was still walking round in the rain, with a dead phone battery and no idea of my location, I finally admitted defeat and asked for directions. It was a humbling moment, and a pretty unpleasant one when it became clear I still had a good half-hour of walking to do, most of it back in the direction I had just come from.

When I finally reached Paddington, I checked the timetable and learned that it would be four hours before the next train left. I hailed a cab and was told it would be about sixty pounds to take me home. I am not made of money, so I resigned myself to a four hour wait at Paddington.

It was not very cold, and the station was quiet, so nothing else could go wrong, surely?

(Continued tomorrow)

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