Saturday 8th November 2014

Thursday.

Another day of meetings. Or meeting.

The meeting was not due to start until nine, but I was awake before six, so got up at half past, had a shower, got ready and went down for breakfast. Here we go again.

Outside it was a cool and damp morning with a hint of mist in the air, traffic was already heavy, and a drive along the O2 would certainly wake me up. It is odd, that Arhus has such a bad traffic problem, but all roads seemed to be jammed in the mornings, but I know the roads leading onto the city are even worse. I get to the office with no trouble, only breaking the speed limit by 10km/h a few times. And so it was time to prepare for the meeting and act like an adult for a while.

All goes well, in fact better than that, so I was able to relax, enjoy a leisurely lunch with plenty of chit chat. All very civilised.

The meeting breaks up early, all parties being happy enough. I catch up on my mails before heading back to the hotel to chill. In a surprise move, I order meatball and rice with curry sauce instead of burger and fries, which is good, and the food was even OK.

Another day over, and tomorrow, I get to go home.

Friday.

And here we are again, awake before dawn, laying in bed listening to the traffic passing on the ring road outside my window. Time to pack, have breakfast and check out.

And today I have yet more meetings. No, worse than that, an audit. And instead I was the one being audited. The auditor becomes the audited. Oh, the horror. But thanks to the hard work of my colleagues, all goes well, and once again we end up having a very pleasant lunch, a bit more of an audit and shake hands and pack up. Whilst others in the office are packing up for an early start to the weekend, I have an hour drive to the airport, wait for my flight, an hour and 50 minutes to London then crossing London on the DLR in the rush hour and then getting a train to Dover. THEN, the weekend can begin. I shouldn't complain, but with travelling back on a Friday evening, and back out Monday morning, it makes the weekend seem so short.

And that is how it panned out, driving south to the airport in the weak Danish sunshine. At the airport I call my old boss to see if he is at the airport and see if he can sign me into the business lounge: the answer is yes and yes. He meets me at the door and I am in the land of free beer and free snacks and decent wifi.

My flight has been put back 20 minutes, which does not sound too much, but that 20 minutes means making the direct train to Dover at seven fifteen tricky. Philip leaves on the Manchester flight at five, leaving me alone with the free beer. Oh, the horror.

We take off on time, and with clear skies over Denmark and Holland means the lights glisten below me as we travel south towards London. I snooze, obvs, I mean after three halves, who wouldn't? As we make our final approach along the Thames, I see roads are heavy with traffic, with the M25 at Dartford stationary for miles on either side. A Eurostar hurtles along below, soon I hoped to be travelling along those same tracks heading home. Once landed, we are made to sit in the plane for 20 minutes, whilst a plane on the next pan readies to take off, then we have no staff to escort us the 5m to the door of the terminal. I try not to get frustrated.

What is called a 'passenger indecent' means that one of the DLR lines is blocked, not the one I want to travel on, but the trains are packed, I just get on with my bag and case. I look at my watch, it is two minutes past seven, 15 minutes to get to Stratford. I am pretty sure I won't make it, and think of getting a coffee for the inevitable wait until five to eight. And I am right, I get to the station four minutes after the train has left. I by a drink and sit down to watch people passing by, the heady mix of people with cultures from the four corners of the world: it is dizzying, but wonderful, not as the Daily Hate Mail would have it, horrific or frightening. I love it.

I get a packed train to Ashford, wait 15 minutes on the platform looking at the sparkling stars above, and the Eurostars thundering past a few feet away at 175mph. The wires fizzle and shake after the trains have past. This is the future.

And here it comes, the final leg of the trip back home. I slump into a seat, read some articles in Empire as the inky blackness of the Kentish countryside slips by outside.

Jools is waiting in the car, I throw in the cases and we drive home. The weekend had arrived.

I had had a good week at work, and Jools had completed her first week at her new job. Yay. And yay.