Of all the diversions, I never thought that I'd relish a visit to the sewing machine shop.
The rain has been that cruel a jailer.
We make a run for it in our black car. Not only are we rushing through the rain to visit a sewing machine shop, but we’re taking a trip to my least favourite town...
She nuzzles the car into a vacant space. The rain lashes on the windows making it clear that it has no intention of letting us out, not even on a short parole.
I give in. Tell the rain I'm going nowhere. She is more determined.
But then, after all, sewing machine shops are probably more her kind of thing.
Left on my own, I click through channels. Things start off promisingly enough. A frothy show in which a bubbly, although all too self-aware of her own amazing humour, presenter defends the classics while laughing at her own jokes.
By classics we are into Virgil here, not the Rolling Stones.
I learn things but none of it sticks which is a measure of how good the programme is.
The rain brings out the odd bods.
I think of the Doors tune, People Are Strange.
Sir Anthony Hopkins comes bare headed down the street disguising himself with a limp and chav style jogging pants. He steps over a kid's bicycle and disappears into the green-marbled entrance of the kebab shop.
My eye travels to a cluster of copper hooded street lamps.
They have a thing about lamps in this town. They are always updating them with older versions in a quest for the perfect, authentic lamp of yesteryear.
I'm not sure what the psychology behind this is: maybe the authentic light-bulbs posing as gas lamps give off a kind of light that attracts people who like to open their wallets when touched with an antique glow - just as a candle draws moths.
Except moths get incinerated which may be why, if the theory behind the psychology is right, the town is in an ever-spiralling boarded up decline.
Sir Anthony comes out of the kebab shop and rolls a cigarette. He doesn't look as good as he used to, either.
At least, not in this light he doesn't.