Bunkhouse

Tomorrow I’m going to a Christmas party that is being organised by one of my clients. However, it isn’t the usual meal in a restaurant, followed by a bar crawl that leaves everyone so hung over the next day that even the idea of dragging themselves to work makes them want to throw up.

Instead, this party is taking place in… er… the middle of Wales. On top of a massive hill. In a bunkhouse, no less. One called ‘Wern Watkins’. I have to drive to the venue, and the place is so remote that the owners proudly claim that SatNav doesn’t get you there. Well, that’s OK, as I’m the only person still left in the Western world who doesn’t have it anyway.

So I’m going to multimap it to the nearest direction on the email I’ve received about how to get there, and I’m also going to check out the route on Google Maps on my iPhone beforehand. It’s likely that in the middle of nowhere my GPS signal will suddenly vanish, as well as any hope of a connection to 3G or even GPRS, so I won’t be able to rely on the usual fallbacks. It’s going to be a real old-school kind of journey. There’s even a number to call if I get hopelessly lost. Whether a mobile signal will even exist out there is, of course, doubtful.

Assuming I make it to the bunkhouse, there will be the requisite mass of food and booze, and I’m hoping that I have a good time despite not knowing anyone other than the people who work in my client’s office – various freelancers for the business are also invited. The venue may be a bit weird, but in theory it should add to the occasion. It’s an overnighter and there will, quite simply, be nowhere to run.

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