I am driving to Masham but haven’t bothered tapping in the details. That’s because I know where Masham is. Here is the extent of my knowledge: it’s up the A1M towards Scotch Corner, but off to the left before that.

The route is a shape in my mind, and that’s enough.

This won’t be like the time I drove to Hornsea in the sure and certain knowledge that you drove to Beverley and turned off somewhere, as there was bound to be a sign somewhere.

That theory worked until I accidentally bypassed Beverley and started on the road to Hull. Nothing wrong with Hull, except that it wasn’t where I was meant to be going that morning. Anyway, I got to Hornsea in the end without being too late.

This won’t be like that because I know where Masham is, off to the left somewhere before Scotch Corner.

But for some reason there doesn’t seem to be a sign. How can that be when I saw one in my mind before setting off on this journey? And it is a journey-journey, just so that you know, not a tedious metaphor about life or anything, just a journey, just another journey to a destination of which I am certain.

As the miles to Scotch Corner diminish, I do spot a sign to Masham, but it’s on a road parallel to the one I am speeding along. That’s right, I need to be over there (gesticulates vaguely to himself in the car). It’s all fine, I’ll turn off in a minute, only those minutes mount and still there isn’t a way off this main road.

This won’t be like the time I drove to Helmsley, in the sure and certain knowledge that I knew where Helmsley was, having cycled there once. We were almost there without the help of the sat-nav when I took a left rather than a right turn onto the main road, in the sure and certain knowledge that was the way.

The human satnav to my left had her doubts but stayed quiet as I seemed to know what I was talking about (schoolgirl error there). In my defence it was very early on a Sunday morning and dark. We were meeting friends to take them to the start of a long charity walk back to their car in Helmsley. After panicked use of the satnav, we were only 20 minutes or so late arriving.

Some miles after I spot that sign on the other road, I come off and follow a dipping and diving road back towards Masham.

Why do we ignore things that might help us? It’s a mystery. Maybe men don’t like being told what to do; perhaps women think they know better than satnavs too. Or maybe it is just a boy thing.

On the way back, I press ‘home’ on the satnav. It takes me on a weird route. I ignore some of the suggested turnings – you’re sending me down there, are you kidding me, why would you do that? Then I know where I am anyway, and head for home.

Here is another episode in that long-running saga called Julian versus Boris Johnson…

A ‘super poll’ in the Mail asks many random questions, including whether Boris Johnson or Keir Starmer would be ‘best to go on holiday with’. I’d rather go on holiday with my wife, it that’s all right with you.

In case you’re wondering, Johnson won that one by 36% to 25%. I can’t imagine anyone worse to go on holiday with. He’d forget to book anything, drink all the wine without buying any, tell lies when it was his turn to cook, then deny it all in the morning.

Anyway, it’s a foolish question. Johnson only goes on holiday to posh places owned by friends even wealthier than himself who give him a freebie. He doesn’t go on holiday with you and me. And we surely don’t want to go on holiday with him.

Buried in all this nonsense was a question about what would happen if ‘there was a vote to leave the EU tomorrow’. This found that 36% of those taking part would vote leave and 45% remain.

For some reason this finding was not trumpeted by the Mail.

I just held a super poll with myself and can report that 100% of me still thinks that Brexit was always going to be a terrible idea, especially after Johnson got his clumsy hands on it.