Saturday 9th November 2013

That evening I went to the in-hotel faux-English pub, the Ship Inn, for dinner. I ended up having a beef kebab burger and a half litre of mighty strong and dark local ale. It was OK, but the atmosphere in the place didn't seem to conducive for me to stay and read, so I headed back to my room and in the end I went to bed at nine, with the sound of cars parking outside my room window.

Friday.

Despite being in what I was told was the most expensive hotel, the breakfast buffet was not too luxurious. I had a bowl of cereal, a roll with raspberry jam and a cup of coffee. That seemed to be the sum of it, so I packed my bags and checked out.

It was a 20 minute drive to work, and traffic was light. Once in I had some number crunching to do, two weeks of it, before I was scheduled to sit on a four hour meeting which would take me to the time when I had to leave for the airport. A four hour meeting! I ask you.

Time passes.

Slowly.

At two I pack up my computer and load the car. Most folks in Esbjerg had already left for the weekend, making an early start. I, however, had nine more hours until I would be home for the weekend. I drove to Billund, parked up, checked in, went through security and went to the gastrobar. I ordered a salad and a beer, and sat down looking out the window at the few aircraft coming and going, and in-between I read.

Despite it being clear in Billund, we soon flew into clouds and soon we were bumping and diving as we hit air pocket after air pocket. Some of the drops were huge, like being on a roller coaster. I have flying like that. I skip the in-flight meal and have just and an orange juice.

In time I see the lights of the belgian coast out east and soon we are flying over Essex and along the Thames. Rain hammered down outside, and even at a only a couple of clouds obscured the suburbs of London. Down and down we went, emerging from the clouds and skimming over the river before bouncing down onto the runway.

We had a long wait before we could get out of the plane, but had no wait at immigration and my bag was waiting on the carousel so I could go straight to the DLR station and head for Stratford. I had 15 minutes to get there, if my watch was right, if I was to catch the seven fifteen train to Dover. Despite trying not to notice, I was willing the train to hurry up. And so it came as no real surprise to find I arrived three minutes too late for the train, so I had a further half hour wait.

I grabbed a coffee and read some more, making my way down onto the platform just before the train was due. There were no seats, but it is just half an hour to Ashford, where i would have to wait for a slow train home. On the cold platform, the quiet was broken by a couple of Eurostars thundering towards France, all flashes of electricity as the pantographs arced on the catenary.

The train arrived, and I had a carriage to myself, and so I passed the final leg of the journey home reading more of the book and trying to keep my eyes open. jools was waiting for me, and I put my bags in the boot and climbed in; off we head home.