Monday 18th March 2019

Thirty four years ago, I began work at the chicken factory near Bungay. I spent the whole week turning wings on the line as the chickens went past me. For forty hours, five days a week, eight hours a day. I had RSI by the end of the first week. This week I flew to Denmark for a week of chaos. Situation so normal, I don't even think about it.

It being spring now, it is nearly fully light by the time we leave the house, having had coffee and fed the cats.

Jools drops me at Martin Mill where I buy my ticket and watch as a long train to Cannon Street pulls in, so long it overhangs the platform.

I take a shot.

Onto the St Pancras train, which is busier than normal, but the good news is that my allergies have calmed down and I sniff not once.

Into London, and I get on the DLR to the airport, again it is busy, but I am in a world of my own as I think of the problems I have in work to solve.

At the airport, I check in my case, and go through security, where my carry on bag, containing my computer and small camera is ppulled for the first time.

Just a random check, sir.

Through that I go to the small restaurant for breakfast of poached eggs and then some toast and marmalade before I find a place to sit down and read my magazine. Registering with the airport free wif-fi is beyond me, tried twice and so complicated, I have given in.

Peace and quiet is nice.

There was just seven of us on the plane, so I sit on the other side to have an extra seat onto which I could put my coat and bag, then settle down to snooze as the plane was made ready.

I got different views as the plane took off into the east, of Stratford and the Lammo, which I snap.

And then up through the clouds and onwards to Holland, Germany and Denmark beyond, where it was sunny. But cold.

I get a car, and for the first day or so, I know where I was going, to head office in Aarhus, so I get in, and start the hour drive north.

Driving in the early spring in Denmark, heck there was even coltsfoot on the side of the road, and no way of stopping.

I have meetings when I arrive, and get briefed on urgent tasks, so get down to work. I also meet old friends, which is always nice. Makes the pain of being away from home less.

At five fifteen I am done, so drive through the rush hour traffic to the hotel where Anni and Bo are waiting to say hello.

We say hello and have a drink. Talk about life and photography and work, and as Bo has to be up at half four the next morning, they leave after one beer, and I walk down the hill to the Smokehouse for dinner or ribs, corn and no fries.

And I have diet Coke not beer.

I am serious.

And that is that. Back up the hill in the gathering darkness to try to relax, phone home and get some sleep. Again, I feel shattered.