O hai and welcome to the (counts on fingers) eleventh annual instalment of Thee Automatick Diary, which this year is taking a more conventional approach to Battle Mountain by arriving in a state that at least borders on Nevada. Most time up till now has been spent sitting in cars, airports or at the back of a Big Shiny Metal Birb mostly full of French types. And Phoenix has not yet installed Immigration Daleks to process your passport, take your dabs, photograph you and print the arrest warrant, or at least not for FOREIGNS chiz. Which at least meant that by the time I and Mr and Mrs Hairy Biker had been admitted to USAnia our bags were all but alone on the carousel.
Nice Man Sergio at Alamo motor-car rentals has given me a convertible Mustang, for which praise be, and didn't try to tempt me with growly V8s, Corvettes or any similar works of Stan that might persuade a young lad off the Path of Righteousness and into the world of Huge Fuel Bills. "Do you want a GPS?" he asked. "No, ha ha, I have brought my own!"
Emily the TwatNav promptly went into a prolonged sulk and claimed all the satellites had been shut down by the Russians. Pausing in a parking lot to reboot and threaten violence seemed to wake her up and as a result I only got lost by a couple of miles. Unlike the dude who waltzed into this hotel just before me, to ask for directions, as his phone appeared to him to be steering him wrong. The words "Fort" and "Worth" were mentioned, along with a plaintive cry of "Dumbass phone thinks I'm in Phoenix!"
Nice Reception Lady pointed out that yes, you are in Phoenix. Mr Larrington noted that Forth Worth is approximately 1,000 miles east of here. I do not think he is likely to pass The Knowledge any time soon.
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Sits back, opens first chapter of the Automatic Diary 2019 - is happy.
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