We've all done it.
About a year or so after I'd started driving I left Doncaster in a rush to get to a stag night in Hull (the poor lad didn't have many takers, just me and one other guy, so I had a sense of duty to get their on time and buy him a few beers and not let him down); but I'd ended up at the opposite side of Doncaster from where I usually set off, so I had an idea I could go up the A1 and join the M62 to get home in time, so I headed off with a bit of time to spare in my dilapidated old Skoda.
I kept a keen lookout for the sign for the M62, but having no idea where I'd joined the A1 or any expectation of how long I should be on it before I turned off, I kept going, and going, and going. After a rather long time scooting up the motorway, with the clock running down on the stag do start, I pulled in to a garage to ask directions.
"Excuse me please but could you tell me how far the M62 is from here - I've been looking for the sign for miles and haven't seen it?"
"Oh petal," she says in her lovely lilting Sunderland accent (whilst supressing a giggle), "ya'v gone way too far - 'ull's miles away from here."
"Oh," I said "where am I?"
"Well yar not too far from the toon petal," now laughing slightly "...
Sunderland toon!" she cries, bursting into a fit of bent-double raucous giggling.
Having no idea where Sunderland was I didn't really understand why it was so funny, until she - very helpfully - grabbed a large atlas from the shelf and showed me exactly how far out of my way I really was!
To her credit she was lovely and helpful (once the giggling subsided) and photocopied the relevant pages from the atlas to get me back home.
I got to the stag do several hours late but managed to buy the groom a few pints and he appreciated the gesture.
