Today, Friend is flying by the seat of his pants.

“Mamma Mia! This is fun,” he chirps as we approach a school in a cathedral city. It’s not the posh one that educated two prime ministers. This school, nearer the western edge of the city, was the alma mater of one of Friend’s favourite actors (mother: Shirley). Friend learnt this when we were 28 miles north-northeast of here, peering at a house used as a location in a film that was arguably the actor’s crowning achievement.

However, we don’t stay long at the school because Friend has also discovered that the actor’s sixth-form college is only seven miles south-southwest of it, in a town next to an airport. At last, here’s something I would like to see — the site of a test carried out 90 years ago; only eight minutes long, its impact still echoes today.

But once we’ve visited the college, Friend shoots down my airport idea. Now he wants to visit the site of a factory just west of the southern end of the runway. It did vital war work, but he cares only about its later role as the birthplace of millions of vans.

Afterwards, I insist on visiting the airport. “No chance,” he tells me bluntly. Instead, he wants to see where the actor got married — in a film, of course. It’s 54 miles away, northeastwards.

I’m already feeling a bit car sick. “Are we going to spend the whole day in transit?” I ask, fuming.

Friend shrugs then jumps back into his car. “Tally ho!” he cries, smirking. Never mind feathers, if I get any angrier I’ll be spitting fire.