Every day I drive to work - no choice really it's 40 miles away and there isn't a train. The journey is mostly on the M25 and includes the special joy of the Dartford tunnel in the morning and the QEII bridge in the evening. Those of you who know the M25 will understand that I'm used to suffering. The journey usually takes about an hour. One morning this week it took three. And for two of those hours I was completely stationary.
I absolutely know how lucky I am that I wasn't in the pile-up that caused the delay, and I know that for some people that day things might never be the same again, nevertheless I can't help but feel that I lost two hours of my life.
And what might I have done in those two hours? I could have.....
...flown to Spain and ended up sitting on a beach rather than at my desk in Chelmsford.
...cheered the mighty Bromley FC as they won the FA cup after extra time (ok, maybe not)
...sat on the edge of my seat, screaming at the TV as Michael Schumacher claimed his first grand prix victory since returning (soon, I hope)
Or perhaps just watched The Railway Children for the twentieth time, dug another trench on the allotment, knitted several more rows of the baby blanket I'm desperately trying to finish by July, read a book, written a poem, or walked up the hill with Philip, sat on the bench in my favourite field and gloried in the view over the valley.