Saturday 9th March 2013

So, its Saturday: that must mean we're in Dover, right?

Let me tell you, as nice as travel can me, the novelty soon wears off when you're flying back home late on Saturday evening. And you know its getting a regular thing when the other passengers recognise you and when you get off say 'see you Monday morning.'

I did forget to tell you about dinner on Thursday night: well, I did not see the notices, but the management thought they would try something different. A buffet. I came downstairs and was told the news: OK, I'll give it a try. What we had was just the one choice, bits of dry chicken with some tinned beans, elsewhere there was mashed potatoes, some kind of mushroom sauce and then some choices of cold vegetables. God, it was grim.

And the business travellers all sat on our own tables reading and making the most of a very poor night. Had i have known, I would have chosen to go anywhere rather than put up with food that would have been a poor meal from a hot lock on exercise.

Friday dawned, I checked out and hopefully next week I will be staying at the other hotel we use, but we shall see. I drove to work and all seemed to be going well. Until the mail arrived.

The mail.

It doesn't matter what went wrong, except to say it all went pear-shape, so the fire-fighting began, with mails and phonecalls being fired off. Why is it always Friday afternoons? Same thing in the RAF too. Oh well.



Time then to drive to Billund, now at least its just a 45 minute drive, so I could take my time and find time to stop off at a church on the way, and it was unlocked. Inside it was finely carved especially behind the altar.



I get to the airport, park the car and hand in the keys, and as I had 90 minutes, I decide to have lunch and so its burger and fries. Again.

Once in the air, we have fine views in the dusk of Denmark stretching out beneath us all the way to its eastern shores. And to the south the islands of Friesland could be seen. Although it was soon lost beneath a blanket of clouds, and that was the case all the way to London. Once over the city, we were on final approach and only a 100 metres or so above the ground before we broke through the cloud into the evening drizzle.

At the airport I grabbed a coffee and was served by an indifferent barista; welcome to Britain. I get on the DLR and head to Stratford, nothing is open, so I stand on the platform and wait for a Eurostar to scream past. Finally, my train pulled in and I slump into a seat on my last leg home.

The weekeend had arrived.