The Tyme Wayster

"Ah Mr Bayliss, we've been expecting you".

The journey home always seems quicker than the journey there; except for this one. So far Brad had to pull over three times to let Pavlov out. Once for a pee, another for a crap and once so he could run barking like a loon up and down the grass banks of a motorway layby, chasing what Brad could only guess at being little doggy fairies in their little fairy underpants skipping from weed to weed whilst avoiding the condoms and cigarette buts, tossed over from the bridge up above. Whatever it was that compelled him to run so madly up and down whilst Brad had a blue fit, jumping up and down on the spot, waving his arms in violent gesticulations and calling him all the names under the sun, certainly filled him with recreational splendour, then feeling very pleased with himself at such a productive firing of energy, he trotted back to the car with tongue and tail flapping around like a pair of socks on a desk fan. Maybe it was the static electricity that he had charged in his coat from all that bravado that caused the painful dull wack to his fluffy rump as he leapt into the passenger seat and struck Brad also as he let out a series of displeased calls as he slammed the car door shut, Pavlov wasn't sure but he was safely back in the vehicle now and would soon be on their way to the next destination. He loved Brad and he knew that Brad loved him; in a funny sort of way.
Nearing the end of the A33, the heavens opened. The rain was so heavy that all traffic had slowed down to twenty miles per hour with the visibility now at around fifteen feet, at a push. Just before the rain started, Brad had noticed a sign for the next service station coming up ahead. They would pull in there, get something to eat and wait for the weather conditions to change, before setting off again. Brad fancied sitting down to a steaming hot lasagne, with a mug of coffee and a plate of doughnuts. He would get a burger for Pavlov, as he wouldn't be so callous as to chuck him a packet of pork scratchings; again.
The car park outside the Little Chef was almost full as they pulled into it from off the motorway. After the fourth lap of the services parking area, Brad found a space, three rows in, between a Scooby-doo, light blue Volkswagon camper van and a red and white, Starsky and Hutch styled Ford Capri. At least it would be easy to spot here, so long as thetwo other vehicles didn't leave before him. Carefully, Brad climbed out from the car as there was minimal room to squeeze into and laid the law down to Pavlov before walking away and turning to give that 'I mean it' look, with the pointed finger.
The meal was good,the best lasagne Brad had tasted for a long while. It was during his fourth doughnut that he realised that he no longer had the envelope that contained the information that would allow him to gain entrance to his grandparents house back in London. He had probably left it in the pocket of his suit jacket that he had discarded earlier that morning, back down in Cornwall after he had found that it had the word 'tosser scrawled across it's shoulders and the trousers thrown with it after the wicker chair incident. He would have to get back in contact with the security firm and get the codes changed. Maybe even install some self defence mechanisms, like high voltage door handles, flame thrower door bells and a ninja gardener with a love of hearing bones snap. Well, it's a thought. Brad was sure that he could remember the codes for the doors in the right order but if he couldn't, he would just have to take documented proof if who he was, two miles up the road into the town and get someone from the firm to come out and let him back in again.
Brad's meal was delicious, the coffee was good and the doughnuts just topped it off fine. He would have liked to have been able to have sat there, letting his food digest whilst browsing through Facebook, emails ad the latest news but unfortunately had to get up ad leave after a newly arrived motorist came in and called out that if anyone wined a red Austin Martin DB5 that the horn was blaring continually and a King Charles was sat in the drivers foot well with it's head stuck through the steering wheel, howling for assistance.
  The quarter pounder with cheese was enough to appease the distraught hound but the scuff marks around the steering wheel from the studded collar around Pavlov's neck would take a lot more than some dense mass of grizzleburger to quench the angst of fury now burning within the frontal lobe of Brad's liquorice allsorts jar of a brain.