Well, what d’ya know? Two blogs this week, the train is back on track. Well,  the truck is back on the track. I mean the road. The truck is back on the road.

And while it rolls on the road, I write this.

But how do you write and roll at the same time? I hear you cry.

Easy. Today I have a double driver. A double driver is someone who jumps into my truck and….well, double drives my truck as we take turns behind the wheel on journeys that are too long for me to legally complete in one (or more) drives.

I won’t bore you with driving hours and laws, as the chances are, you wouldn’t understand them. Heck, I’ve barely got the hang of them, so convoluted that they are.

Anyway, today I’m in Hungary, double driving from the Netherlands down to Bulgaria. Not via Serbia. Everyone’s having trouble getting a truck through there at the moment.

It’s two of us on this journey, and as Ollie (driver of the other truck) and I waited for our double drivers to return from their hotel and 9 hour rest, a young man stood in front of  my truck and waved at me.

I got out to talk with him.

“Excuse me,” he said, very politely, and with a heavy accent. “Please could you tell me when you finish here?”

“We’ll be gone in 10 minutes,” I said. “You want to park here?”

He said yes and pointed over his shoulder to where a Scania truck sat behind my DAF. I told him we would be gone as soon as our double drivers turned up.

The young man left and I stood under Ollie’s window, talking with him as he leaned out, looming above me.

The young man returned with his dad. I told the older man we were still waiting and he said, “no problem”, but that was about the limit of his English.

“Are you guys Hungarian?” I asked.

“Romanian,” the young man said. He must have been 15 or 16 and his moustache was better than mine.

“Are you learning to drive a truck with your dad?” I asked and he laughed.

“No, I am learning I.T.,” he said. “I don’t want to drive a truck.”

“I.T. is a good career,” I said. “My youngest is just about to start college and computing.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Sofia, Bulgaria,” I said.

“Don’t go through Serbia,” the young man told me.

“I heard there are problems,” I told him. “Is it because we are English?”

“No,” he said, “everyone has problems. Don’t care where you’re from.”

“Shiiiiiit,” I said.

“Red flag, red flag!” he laughed.

“Red flag,” I agreed. I liked this kid.

He stared at our trucks. “What do you carry?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do you know Imagine Dragons?”

“Of course,” he nodded.

“We’re on tour with them,” I said. “Started yesterday.”

He gasped and put his hands on his head.

“No way!” he said.

“Yep,” I said, “and last week was Coldplay. Before that Macklemore. Have you heard of him?”

“Yes, of course!“

He was so excited, and I was so happy to talk about bands and tours with him. We chatted for a while, his father looking amused and confused at a conversation he couldn’t follow.

The boy suddenly handed his phone to his father. I heard him say something about “truck” and “photo”.

“Oh sure,” I said, standing to one side. “You can get a picture with my truck.”

The young man grabbed my arm.

“No, with you,” he said.

His dad took a few photos of us with our arms round each other in front of my DAF, throwing up peace signs, before we all said our goodbyes and fist-bumped our farewells.

I watched the old man and his son go as I stood under Ollie’s window, feeling pleased with myself.

I looked up at Ollie.

He looked down at me.

“You’re such a loser,” he said.