I am watching England slip slowly over the horizon, with a glass of wine in hand, and dinner on its way. Finally I feel like I am on holiday. And I feel like I could watch England disappear forever. Also, only ordering a half-bottle of this wine was a brave mistake.

It's 11:30pm English time. The ferry is just pulling out of Portsmouth. Unable to simply experience it, I am writing about it, though then again, I am on my own here, and my other options range from talking to myself about it to simply staring vacantly into the growing space between me and Portsmouth while dribbling slightly.

Bye bye Portsmouth.

Bye bye England.

Thank God.

Also, thank you, Mum and Dad.

Five hours ago I was down on my hands and knees in Dudden Hill Service station changing a tire, having been bitten by the breakdown of one of those newfangled braindead digital air pumps where you have to punch in the tire pressure you'd like your tire to be at, then guess whether the machine will do what you asked or instead simply let all the air out of the tire while you are looking the other way trying to figure out what the LCD screen is trying to indicate.

In my case, admittedly, I didn't score so badly, and successfully got three of my four tires to 27dpi, or whatever the unit for tire pressures is these days. The fourth time, alas, I was not so lucky, and the machine opted to let the tire down then stop working completely.

After taking a calm measured view of the situation I decided to do the rational thing and panic. I called my Dad.

I hate the fact that at the age of 34, something goes wrong with my car and the first, indeed only thing I can think of is to call my Dad.

Obviously, it's a good thing that I am able to do such a thing, and a better thing yet that he and I get on well enough that he responds positively, but still.

I should be stronger.

I am not.

Anyway, ten minutes later, he and my Mum showed up with a foot pump which I connected to the now empty tire and immediately broke.

Next thing I knew, I had discovered that not only does my car boot contain a spare tire but there is also a jack.

I'd never changed a tire before.

I have now.

Pathetic, really, isn't it.

The truth is, I am a pathetic car driver. Today was the first time I have done any maintenance on the thing in about two years. It took two litres of oil, neeeded a lot of water in the radiator, now has windscreen cleaning fluid again for the first time in months, and is now running with the spare tire, despite my father's claim that it looked a bit bald to him.

Well, it got me to Portsmouth.

Here's hoping it'll take me a further 400 miles across France tomorrow.

After all, things are looking up. I managed a whole meal without ordering the other half bottle of wine, and am now safely esconsed in the ferry bar, hoping it will shut soon before I blow the rest of my money on brandy.

Fuck it.

If I need to go busking, I will. Done it before.

I seem to be the only one drinking alone in this bar. Funny that.

Wait.

What's she doing? Her at the bar. Ordering a brandy.

My but she's lovely.

Ach, she's getting another drink as well.

Never mind.

Things I now realise I forgot to pack:

• A jacket or coat of any sort
• A towel
• My piano

The towel is simple to solve. I will either buy or borrow one.

The coat thing, though. That was dumb.

Oh well...