If you need me I’ll be lost on the way to the bar!

As someone who often gets lost, I was thrilled to receive an invitation to the annual summer party for The society of People Who Love Giving Directions.

‘The venue isn’t hard to find,’ ran a helpful note attached to the card. ‘Just leave the motorway at junction 6, then at the first roundabout take the second exit, or, if you prefer to leave the motorway at junction 5, then at the second roundabout take the first exit, or avoid the motorway altogether and take the B road until you cross the third bridge, then turn left at the second set of traffic lights and go on for about a mile-and-a-half until you come to a church, or what used to be a church . . .’

The note carried on in this vein for three or four closely typed pages, offering alternative directions for those who preferred the prettiest route, ‘though it could add on anything between ten and 20 minutes to your journey, depending on the traffic at the level-crossing, which you could avoid by taking the first left and second right after The Cricketers pub on your right.’

When the big day came, The society of People Who Love Giving Directions had positioned stewards in hi-vis jackets around the village to guide guests to the party. When I wound down my car window and asked one of them the way, he could not have been more helpful.

‘oooh, now let me see,’ he said. He then emitted a big sigh, looking first one way, then the other. ‘Hmmm.’ He sighed again. ‘ Hang on, I’ll just call my colleague over. Geoff! This gentleman here wants to know the best way to the party!’

Geoff lumbered over, blowing air between his teeth as he pondered the problem. ‘The party, you say?’ he sighed, shaking his head. ‘Well, you’re heading in the wrong direction. You want to go back to the first T junction, then take a right, a left and a right, then pass where the village pond used to be, then a sharp left, I tell a lie, sharp right, when you reach the pub, now what’s it called, it’s on the tip of my tongue . . . Harry!’

Harry crossed the road. ‘What’s the name of the pub, Harry? This gentleman wants to know.’

Harry couldn’t remember the name of the pub, but he thought Gordon might know.

‘It’s all right,’ I interjected. ‘I’ll just take a sharp right at the pub, whatever it’s called.’

‘oh, you don’t want to go sharp right,’ said Gordon. ‘sharp right would send you round in a circle. You want to take the shortcut through the farm, or will the gate be closed? Geoff, do you know if the farm gate’s closed?’

Within the half an hour, I was walking into the party. ‘Would you care for a drink?’ asked a greeter.

‘ Yes, please,’ I said.

‘Then you need to go right at the end of the hallway, past the second door on your left, then third right after the grandfather clock, and the drinks table will be facing you, or almost facing you, depending on which way you’re looking. And if you find yourself in the kitchen, you’ve gone too far.’

FINALLY I got my drink, just in time to catch the welcoming speech by the President of The society of People Who Love Giving Directions.

‘I know some of you have come a long way to be here tonight,’ he began. ‘But you could have cut it by a good ten minutes if only you’d taken the B3950, then turned left at the junction of the A298, and then straight on for two and a half miles, until you get to that spot where the old oak tree used to be, and then probably best to ask someone.’

It was clear that everyone was really enjoying his speech — some said it was the best they’d ever heard — but most of them were keen to chip in with directions of their own.

‘I now call upon the Treasurer to come to the podium,’ the President concluded, adding: ‘Probably best to swing left just before the lampstand, then second right at the coffee table. You can’t miss it.’