Friday, February 27, 2015
By Craig Brown for the Daily Mail
Published: 01:45 GMT, 10 February 2015 | Updated: 01:52 GMT, 10 February 2015
While I’m not a member of many organisations, I have belonged to the SPCDD (The Society For People Who Can’t Deal with Directions) for some years now.
The invitation for their Annual Ball arrived in the post a month ago. It would have come earlier, but they’d got the wrong address.
It was a formal invitation, printed on a nice stiff card, in beautiful italic script. This year’s ball would begin at ‘7pm for 9.15pm’, allowing a bit of extra time for all those who found themselves turning left rather than right at the first junction after the roundabout and would thus be trapped on the dual carriageway all the way to the motorway, unable to turn back until Junction 7.
The directions to the party were printed at some length on the back of the invitation, continuing onto two further sheets of A4. What could possibly go wrong? It was only when I got into my car and began to read them that I got into a bit of a muddle.
‘Guests are advised to take the B21094 until you get to the first house on the left.
‘You can’t miss it, unless you’re driving at night, which you will be, so on second thoughts it’s probably better not to take the B21094 at all, but to go along the motorway until you get to Junction 8, which is signed “Smedley and Davenport”, or at least used to be, but they might have changed it to something else a few years ago.
‘Anyway, if you see a sign saying “City Centre”, don’t whatever you do take it, or you’ll end up on the B30671, which goes to just where you don’t want to be.’
On and on these directions went, through sudden about-turns, a reversal up a one-way street, and several injunctions to ‘retrace your route’. They ended 700 words later advising one that, ‘if, at any time, you lose your way, just follow the signs that say “Sharp Bend Ahead”, or otherwise ask a stranger. Looking forward to seeing you! Don’t be late!’
The first waltz was already well under way. True to form, the dancing couples had all ended up squashed in a bottleneck at the far end of the dance-floor, having waltzed the wrong way It was only after I had finally reached the end that I noticed that this year’s ball was, for the first time ever, a joint venture with our sister organisation, the APCGPD (Association For People Who Can’t Give Proper Directions). We’ve enjoyed many successful joint events in the past, or, at least, we would have had, if any of us had managed to locate them.
So off I set to the Annual Ball, the directions lying crumpled on the passenger seat, perfectly positioned for me to glance at as I whizzed past the right turning at 60mph. To make sure I didn’t get lost, I also switched on the Association’s exclusive Sat Nav device, available only in Swahili.
I won’t go into all the ups and downs of my journey. Suffice it to say that when the instructions said ‘Go right up the hill’, I went right, rather than straight on. As this was only my first mistake out of 20 or so, I didn’t make it to the Ball until some time after midnight, by which time most of the other guests had also begun to arrive. Many of the couples were walking in stony silence, looking daggers at each other for not failing to follow even the simplest directions.
At the entrance, I asked one of the greeters where I could leave my coat.
‘Well, let’s see,’ he sighed, looking left and then right before sighing again. ‘You could either go up these stairs and take a first left — no, I tell a lie, second left — and then a first right, then go straight on. Or you might prefer to go along the corridor, and take the second set of stairs, then take a second right and a first left, and then you’ll see a door marked COATS. You can’t miss it.’
Twenty minutes later, I had found my way back downstairs. As I entered the ballroom, the first waltz was already well under way. True to form, the dancing couples had all ended up squashed in a bottleneck at the far end of the dance-floor, having waltzed the wrong way.
‘Still, it could be worse,’ confided the Secretary. ‘Last year, quite a few members took a wrong turn during the Conga. Sadly, one or two are still registered as missing.’
In between dances, the talk turned to the best route back. I was chatting to the President of the Association for People who Can’t Give Proper Directions, and he tipped me off about a brilliant short-cut.
Couldn’t be easier,’ he said. ‘Left out of the drive, then first right. No, I tell a lie. Right out of the drive, then first left. No, in fact it’s a lot simpler if you just go straight on, well, not straight on exactly, but definitely don’t turn right when the road goes left, and then when you get to the T-junction, well, it’s more of a fork in the road ... Hang on, I’ve just thought of a much better way.’
‘I’m with you,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘Thanks so much! You’ve been a great help!’ This is what I always say to people after they’ve given me directions. It makes them feel great, and, for at least two seconds, gives me the reassuring feeling that I’ve taken it all in.
Published: 01:45 GMT, 10 February 2015 | Updated: 01:52 GMT, 10 February 2015
While I’m not a member of many organisations, I have belonged to the SPCDD (The Society For People Who Can’t Deal with Directions) for some years now.
The invitation for their Annual Ball arrived in the post a month ago. It would have come earlier, but they’d got the wrong address.
It was a formal invitation, printed on a nice stiff card, in beautiful italic script. This year’s ball would begin at ‘7pm for 9.15pm’, allowing a bit of extra time for all those who found themselves turning left rather than right at the first junction after the roundabout and would thus be trapped on the dual carriageway all the way to the motorway, unable to turn back until Junction 7.
The directions to the party were printed at some length on the back of the invitation, continuing onto two further sheets of A4. What could possibly go wrong? It was only when I got into my car and began to read them that I got into a bit of a muddle.‘Guests are advised to take the B21094 until you get to the first house on the left.
‘You can’t miss it, unless you’re driving at night, which you will be, so on second thoughts it’s probably better not to take the B21094 at all, but to go along the motorway until you get to Junction 8, which is signed “Smedley and Davenport”, or at least used to be, but they might have changed it to something else a few years ago.
‘Anyway, if you see a sign saying “City Centre”, don’t whatever you do take it, or you’ll end up on the B30671, which goes to just where you don’t want to be.’
On and on these directions went, through sudden about-turns, a reversal up a one-way street, and several injunctions to ‘retrace your route’. They ended 700 words later advising one that, ‘if, at any time, you lose your way, just follow the signs that say “Sharp Bend Ahead”, or otherwise ask a stranger. Looking forward to seeing you! Don’t be late!’
The first waltz was already well under way. True to form, the dancing couples had all ended up squashed in a bottleneck at the far end of the dance-floor, having waltzed the wrong way It was only after I had finally reached the end that I noticed that this year’s ball was, for the first time ever, a joint venture with our sister organisation, the APCGPD (Association For People Who Can’t Give Proper Directions). We’ve enjoyed many successful joint events in the past, or, at least, we would have had, if any of us had managed to locate them.
So off I set to the Annual Ball, the directions lying crumpled on the passenger seat, perfectly positioned for me to glance at as I whizzed past the right turning at 60mph. To make sure I didn’t get lost, I also switched on the Association’s exclusive Sat Nav device, available only in Swahili.
I won’t go into all the ups and downs of my journey. Suffice it to say that when the instructions said ‘Go right up the hill’, I went right, rather than straight on. As this was only my first mistake out of 20 or so, I didn’t make it to the Ball until some time after midnight, by which time most of the other guests had also begun to arrive. Many of the couples were walking in stony silence, looking daggers at each other for not failing to follow even the simplest directions.
At the entrance, I asked one of the greeters where I could leave my coat.
‘Well, let’s see,’ he sighed, looking left and then right before sighing again. ‘You could either go up these stairs and take a first left — no, I tell a lie, second left — and then a first right, then go straight on. Or you might prefer to go along the corridor, and take the second set of stairs, then take a second right and a first left, and then you’ll see a door marked COATS. You can’t miss it.’
Twenty minutes later, I had found my way back downstairs. As I entered the ballroom, the first waltz was already well under way. True to form, the dancing couples had all ended up squashed in a bottleneck at the far end of the dance-floor, having waltzed the wrong way.
‘Still, it could be worse,’ confided the Secretary. ‘Last year, quite a few members took a wrong turn during the Conga. Sadly, one or two are still registered as missing.’
In between dances, the talk turned to the best route back. I was chatting to the President of the Association for People who Can’t Give Proper Directions, and he tipped me off about a brilliant short-cut.
Couldn’t be easier,’ he said. ‘Left out of the drive, then first right. No, I tell a lie. Right out of the drive, then first left. No, in fact it’s a lot simpler if you just go straight on, well, not straight on exactly, but definitely don’t turn right when the road goes left, and then when you get to the T-junction, well, it’s more of a fork in the road ... Hang on, I’ve just thought of a much better way.’
‘I’m with you,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘Thanks so much! You’ve been a great help!’ This is what I always say to people after they’ve given me directions. It makes them feel great, and, for at least two seconds, gives me the reassuring feeling that I’ve taken it all in.
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