Thursday 11th December 2014

Sunday.

I hope this is not a sign of things to come, travelling to work on a Sunday morning. Once again I stress this is not an onerous task, but it is giving up 50% of the weekend, and the time spent with Jools and the cats of course. I will get the time back, or did get it back on Friday, but running chores which otherwise could have been done at the weekend. Whatever.

I am never at my best in the mornings, less so on work days, and even less on on a weekend working day! We got up, had a coffee and I sat down to catch up on the football. As I always say, it doesn’t watch itself. At nine, I pack, check my documents and am ready. We leave home at ten past ten, and a quick trip down to the station, dodging the increasingly heavy traffic to and from the port. I get my ticket and climb on board, turning the phone on to see who else has been working at the weekend.

Off we go, gliding into the darkness of the harbor tunnel and on toward Folkestone, Ashford, Stratford, the airport and Denmark. The train is rammed again, this time with people heading upto the shops in that London town. All seemed in good spirits, except me of course. As if to taunt me and my grey mood, the sun came out.

Oh well.

The journey is as normal, but this time with the added bonus of changing at Canning Town instead of a lovely straight through train.

More grumbling there.

Thing is the airport is filled with more holiday types than the usual business travelers on a Sunday, so it is always funny to see people trying to smuggle through huge bottles of shower gel and the such in their hand luggage, and so have to go through the inspections after their case is pulled out by the x ray. I go through with no proble,,a nd feeling guilty about the cost of food in the airport, use the café to cut down on the cost. I order a pannini and a coffee, both awful beyond words from Panopolis, and am charged over eight quid for it. I laugh and will use the grill instead, at least the food is edible.



Once we board the plane, it is full which is a surprise, I have my usual single seat. And soon Essex is lost below as we fly through the thickening clouds. I spend the flight reading Private Eye, and am made ever more angry by the antics of our wonderful elected officials, big business and the like.



Denmark is hidden under thousands of feet of rainclouds, just as Steffen had warned me about. It looks like night on the ground, which it almost is as it is four by the time we land. Rain is hammering down. Welcome to Denmark.

I have a little Mitsubishi car for the week, I squeeze my luggage and myself in, find the start button, switch the lights on and off we go, into the wet night on towards Esbjerg. Traffic is light on the oh so familiar roads, the rain even stops. Which is nice.

I check in and then go to the sports bar where I had arranged to meet Steffen to see the end of the afternoon’s Prem games. He had not arrived when I got there, so I walk past a large group of loud Brits to a space in the bar.

“IAN!, is that you?” comes a loud shout from the group of Brits. Hmmm, my name is Ian, could someone be calling me? Turns out they were, it was my old mate Gaz, whith whom I was in the RAF at Colt with, and who I got the job at Gardline for. Turns out it was the crew from a Gardline boat, I knew most of the people, best catch up with the drinking.

Steffen arrived, more beer.

Gaz and the rest moved off to find a place to eat. I said we would be at the Dronning Louise, and they should go there, but they were intent on their quest, and so I did not see them again. Steffen and I walk up to DL, we have nachos and two pints of Christmas beer.

I have had enough, I bid Steffen goodbye and walk back to the hotel where bed is calling.

Monday.

I am woken at half three by being hot. Very hot. The radiator is jammed on and the valve is broken. I open the window, hoping to take the edge of the heat. Just to make things perfect, my allergy starts. Peachy, just peachy.

I decide to switch the computer on and listen to the radio. Sleep certainly wasn’t coming. So I am packed, showered and dressed all ready to go in plenty of time for breakfast and still have an hour to drive to the factory to be in time for the day’s inspecting.

After so little sleep, it is understandable I am so sleepy by lunch. Thankful the day is over by three, and I then have a 90 minute drive to Arhus to the next hotel; yes, the compound at the Scandic West. Hoorah.

I struggle to keep my eyes open, and driving helps to focus my mind, in fact by the time I reach Arhus I feel quite awake again. Round the rig road to the hotel, check in, book dinner for six. I have some mails to fire off, and that keeps my brain going at 100mph. I am hungry enough to not feel guilty about ordering burger and fries for dinner. Which I do.

Another old RAF mate comes over for a beer at eight, we chat, share a beer for an hour, all very nice. But as Shaggy is driving, he can only have one, he bids me goodnight and I go to try to find the Man Utd game on the TV. I don’t, so follow it on Twitter.