I had been traveling for over 24hrs. I should have booked a hotel in Paris for the 13 hour wait for the connecting flight. No, what I should have done was booked a flight for the following day, or even the one after that and spent a day or two in Paris. Gotten a good night’s sleep in a hotel there. I was weary of hotels at this stage, but one more night wouldn’t have hurt. At least I would have been in better form to deal with my current situation.

I had called the Automobile Association 2 hrs ago already. Called them the first time 2 hours ago. I’d called them the 2nd time an hour ago and was gearing up for another call. The chirpy Lori had told me it was a very busy time of year and a very busy time of the day, so delays were to be expected. If they knew it was a busy time of year and a busy time of the day, should they not have brought in more staff to deal with all the busyness?

It was still daylight, that dull kind of daylight that put you in mind of coming home from school in the autumn. Cool enough to be wearing your coat, but not cold enough to have it buttoned up. I was so tired I was almost beyond tired. I’d already had my second wind. Was there a third wind to be had? Or was that just delirium? Maybe I should book a hotel near here for the night. Was I too tired to drive? I might have been, but I was so agitated that it was hard to tell. My ex would have dropped our teenage son home by now. I didn’t want to call to check because I knew that would be the exact time the AA guy would call saying he couldn’t find me in the vast carpark despite me giving Lori the row letter, zed, or zee as my son would say and I would shout “zed, we’re not American, get off that feckin computer and do your homework”, and if I didn’t answer AA man, he would drive off in his yellow chariot and I would be stuck here in row zed for the rest of my 40s.

I had managed to take notches out of two of my nails trying to unwedge my carry-on case from the overhead compartment. I hadn’t had any kind of file in my handbag for fear of being arrested on a terrorism charge. I fumbled in the glove box. No, nothing. I visualised the worn-out nailfile in amongst the free promotional pens in an old chipped mug sitting on my desk at home as I ran my fingers up and down my jeans in an attempt to take the hazardous edges of them.

I rested my head on the headrest, I’d just close my eyes and rest for a while. Holding my phone in my hand, ready to answer before it even rang. I thought about how only 30 or so hours ago I was making my way down Shardeni Street, trying not to twist my ankles on the treacherous cobblestones while ducking and diving the low-hanging branches that tried to catch you unawares. My head jerked forward. I heard myself grunt, just like our grandfather used to by the fireplace after Sunday lunch, when he’d doze off. I decided it would be best to check in somewhere for the night. I’d call my son and let him know as soon as AA man, the superhero, arrived. Hopefully, my son would hear his phone above the noises of him banging on his computer keyboard and swinging that steering wheel around. It made a terrible noise that often but the fear in me when I wasn’t expecting it. I suggested he go at with some WD40 and he went off on how it was a delicate piece of electronics and not the garden gate.

Trying to Get Home was originally published in Writers’ Blokke on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.