MiBâs Odyssey Yesterday I had to drive from Kingâs Lynn to RAF Marham for a meeting and, being a bit of a geek, I have given up with maps in the car and I now used the built in âsatnavâ GPS mapping route finder thingy. I had one of our older engineering bods with me and he was so impressed with the âsat navâ MiB made the mistake of selecting âShortest Routeâ as the navigation option. Within a few minutes we were hurtling along some disturbingly narrow lanes in Norfolk with âbitching Bessieâ shouting encouragement such as âIn one hundred metres turn leftâ Just West of Pentney there is an old stone cross at the side of the road then we reached a farm entrance with a Public Bridleway signâ¦.. âTurn leftâ Oh well, so we turned leftâ¦..when surrounded by chickens and tractors and to the bemused stare of Seth The Farmer I again did as told and âTurned leftâ onto a dirt track out of the rear of the farm. With an air of electronic confidence Bitching Bessie then turned me to the right and onto a track that ran down the edge of a freshly ploughed field and so with the offside wheels in a ploughed rut I proceeded along at about 2 miles per hour making sure that the red arrow was still, unbelieveably, still on the âhighlighted routeâ Back on more compressed mud at the end of the field on we crunched through frozen puddles, for âtis cold in Norfolk, and reached a large warping drain with a bridge into another field. Across the wooden bridge was a concrete farm track and instructions to âturn rightâ then quickly âturn leftâ I was relieved to turn left as by this time I was off the concrete road and onto a public footpath. âMmmmmmm,â thought I, âtis not going according to plan.â Bitching Bessie, with the confidence of a woman who drives from the backseat, then told me âIn 200 metres go straight aheadââ¦â¦â¦I was now on a grassed woodland firebreak in Marham Fen with a metal gate across it. Using the initiative I am famed for I started to sweat and bullshit my way out of things with the bemused engineer. I reversed up to the junction and followed my nose. Now I have to confess that whilst my nose is good for crotch sniffing and fart testing it is a poor navigational tool and so within another minute Bitching Bessie rerouted me along the path I was following. I should have known that when my nose agrees with the navigational planning of a Japanese computer with a Kiwi accent it is time to park up and call a taxi. Halfway across a set of fields on a path that looked like Agincourt; The Aftermath, Bitching Bessie gave up and denied that she had ever suggested going âwadi bashingâ in Norfolk. What do you do when the electronic woman of your dreams leaves you? So I turned my little car, now resembling the camouflage patterns beloved of Rommel in 1943, and headed back to where I last heard her little antipodean voice. Women, however, are unreliable creatures and the cow tried to make me unlock the gate and drive through the forest againâ¦perhaps she has a little red riding hood thing going. MiB then set out like a man on a mission and drove round the other side of the trees with nettles and brambles whipping at the muddy flanks of his trusty Japanese steed. Suddenly in the distance I could see my Mecca, an aircraft hangar on a hill with only 500 acres of Somme like mud between myself and it. As I entered another farmyard, (this time with chickens and Rueben The Farmer staring with bovine passive stupidity at the horseless carriage) I emerged onto the road through Marham village to a chorus of âProceed to the highlighted routeâ Typical woman, really, the chips are down and she went back to her mother, when everything is cosy again she returns with an âI told you this would happenâ attitude. What do you expect from a computer with gender issues?