I am increasingly convinced that I’ve once again offended the Gods of Roadworks. There can be no other explanation for the chaos that unfolded last night, so allow me to present the evidence.

I’d been over in Mostyn for a meeting. All perfectly ordinary. I already knew the A55 eastbound was closed, (the very direction I needed) so I’d prepared myself like a seasoned traveller of North Wales: calm acceptance, alternative routes, and the quiet hope that the universe might show mercy. After all, there were several easy options.

Or so I thought.

No sooner had I committed to the simplest alternative route than I found myself plunged into a labyrinth of roadworks, diversions, and closures. It was as if every highway deity had gathered for a committee meeting and declared, “Let’s see how many cones we can throw at this man before he snaps.” (Well the joke is on them, I was never sane to start with!)

By the time I neared home, Waze, which at this point feels less like an app and more like a benevolent household spirit, instructed me to abandon civilisation entirely and head up a narrow mountain track I’d never even noticed before. Now, I’ve learned to trust Waze with the kind of faith usually reserved for prophets, so up the track I went. And thank goodness I did, because later I discovered that the road I would have taken was also closed. Naturally.

As a final flourish, I was treated to the surreal sight of a massive articulated lorry being diverted down a single‑lane, hedge‑lined country road that was barely wide enough for a determined sheep. Part of me wanted to follow it just to witness the inevitable moment it realised its mistake, but by then, I simply wanted to get home before the Gods of Roadworks found a fresh torment to unleash.