Saturday 6th February 2016

Friday

You know the score: I am in the Zleep, I have to make my flight at twenty past eigt, get across London, catch a train, then a bus then a taxi home. Simples.

The alarm goes off at six; it has been a quiet night at the airport, but then with the new of the hotel they are building, and my room facing it, seems like it is dulling the sounds from the airport. Just as well, really. So I get up, have a shower, pack and am ready to go. Saying that, I look at the seven bottles of beer in my case and think there isn't enough padding round them.I take off my t shirt to pack round three of the loose bottles. Seemed safe enough. Famous last words, as it turned out.

Down the hall to the buffet; a glass of juice and a nutella roll and a coffee. See, I am enjoying destroying the rules of grammar that my middle school teacher drilled into me. Sorry, Mrs Farrell.

I am raring to go. Or so I tell myself: but outside it is the last few moments before dawn begins to show in the east; the sky is jet black, but the air feels crisp and clean. And in places, looking down, I can see frost on the grass near to the path. Brrr. I double my pace and make for the terminal.

No key for the lounge this time, but there is no queue at the desk, and only a short one at security, where it is mostly families with bleary-eyed children, griping about not being in bed, mostly. Once through, I make for a table under the lounge so I could use their free internet, as you do. I have mails to write and calls to make. Time goes quickly, and after speaking to my boss, I walk to the gate, after showing my passport at immigration. I have to show my boarding pass and passport again; how many times?

Anyway, we are let straight onto the plane, less than 20 of us on it, we make ourselves comfortable, as rain begins to fall outside.

Once in the air and Denmark is hidden beneath swathes of thick cloud, breakfast is served, and once I have another roll, I close my eyes and sleep through most of the rest of the flight, only jerked awake as we beging to drop down from the cruising altitude towards Blighty. The clouds did not clear, so we did not see London until we dropped below cloud cover somewhere over Grays. It looked dull down there, and packed with traffic as the rush hour drew to an end. Nearly home.

We are sent to the most distant slot, so have to wait for a bus to take us to the terminal, but the sheep are still queuing and pushing each other out of the way to be first off. I am next to last off, and anyway, there is space aplenty on the bus. But I had already worked out there was no way way I could get to Stratford for the quarter to ten train, meaning I had an hour before the next one. I had plenty of time.

I stood on the DLR and could smell stale beer. Some old soak had too much last night I thought to myself. And laughed. The train seemed less crowded than usual, I could have had a seat, but I chose to stand to look at the progress of Crossrail down below as we leave the airport; tracks are down and all now just waiting the trains. At Stratford I go to the cafe, order a coffee. OK< not just a coffee but a large gingerbread latte with an extra shot as well as a warm sausage roll. Lovely.

Outside the cafe, I could sell beer again; this could only mean one thing; a bottle had been broken in my case. I open it, and at first all looks well. But sure enough there is one bottle with the neck broken in an almost perfect circle, a clean t short and pair of socks seem to have soaked most of it up, but the rest is smelling of beer at leat. I take the boken bottle and a couple of shards of glass out, the rest will have to wait until I am home.

I go down to the platform to wait the last few minutes before the train arrives. The front two carriages are almost empty, so I take a seat on my preferred side, and wait for the train to glide out. Out in south Essex the clouds are low and heavy, and so a steady rain begins to fall.

At Folkestone West we get off, and those of us for Dover and beyond climb onto the waiting coach, the heating is full on, and feels like a chicken Madras tastes; I sense my case steaming fresh beery aroma. Oh well.

I flag a taxi down at Priory; since the line was cut, I guess business has plummeted; there are more than half a dozen waiting for passengers who don't need them.

Once home, I leave the case outside. I have many things to do, least of all is eat lunch. So I make a large cuppa, butter a couple of fresh rolls. Then I unpack the case, put the dirty and soaked washing in the machine. By half twelve I am all done, caught up. And so I realise I could order another taxi to take me to the beer festival. Oh yes.

By ten past one I am waiting in line outside, I had also found my new membership card, and beer tokens left over from last year. I buy a glass, I bump into my old friend Matt at the bar, and once we have a pint, we go back to where he is sitting to catch up on news. We take it in turns to go to get refills and food. Time passes in quite a pleasant manner. I meet an old Flickr contact who comes down every year; he told me he was wearing a pork pie hat; so I ask every one in a hat if they are Chris. Only Chris is Chris. Apparently.

At four Matt and I walk over to The Rack to sample their beers. Trish is pleased we had gone over, I have time enough for a pint until Jools comes to collect me on her way home from work. She is going out in the evening with Jen, going to see some ballroom dancing in Canterbury, so I will be home alone.

We have a coffee, swap news, but then it is time for her to leave. So I have a shower, I then join Molly on the sofa so we could watch the recording of the midweek games from the Prem. Norwich we worse than I feared to be honest. And Carrow Road so quiet, something will have to shake them out of their torpor soon. There is a fine show featuring some 70s rock, including many I had not heard of before: Babe Ruth, Heavy Metal Kids, Nazareth, The Sensational Alex Harvey Band amongst others. A fine show indeed. What the world really doesn't need is a documentary on 'the most dangerous band in the world', Guns and Roses, apparently. Quite how they can get to the heart of the matter when the lead singer, one Axl Rose, is only represented via vintage interviews. He still comes over as a massive cock; so an accurate show then!

Jools arrives back at eleven, and I can't be bothered with the final half an hour of the show. So, time for bed.