I’VE done quite a lot of travelling in recent years, both for business and pleasure.

From time to time, it’s necessary to ask for directions, and I’ve increasingly started to notice something… the inability of the average person to accurately calculate distance.

How far is Blanktown? “Oh, about a mile, 20 minutes’ walk at the most.”

Nearly an hour and three miles’ walk later, we arrive at the destination, vowing always to take any future estimate and at least double it in future.

The worst example I can recall was one hot summer when we were staying in Montmartre, that intriguing Parisian suburb.

Leaving the hotel, I asked the distance to the nearest Metro stop and was told one kilometre.

It was more like a steaming three before I arrived at the station, pouring with sweat, with one wheel left on my suitcase, and a mood blacker than Napoleon’s hat.

My misery was then compounded when an arm of the turnstile hooked into my shorts, ripping them to the waist. By how much, you may ask. Oh, by at least two feet… and no, I’m not exaggerating.

*I ADORE the summer… even Worcester’s poor old polluted Duck Brook looks good with a seasonal makeover.

Transformed by garlands of mosses and flowers, this usually less-than-radiant rivulet stumbles like a blushing bride to meet her groom, the Severn. Let’s face it… we all feel better when the sun shines.