Friday 27th March 2015

Thursday

And its time to go home. Or will be in a few hours. I had planned to lay in, but thanks to a combination of the ever-early dawn and regular cramp attacks during the night, I felt like i had not slept. I drag myself out of bed, have a shower and pack.

Downstairs, and the hotel is jammed full of Canadian schoolkids, clogging up the restaurant, moaning about the food. Whatever, I am not at my best at in the morning so I fill get angry at almost anything. The kids were not so bad, I was just grumpy. Outside it is a glorious morning, too nice to be at work, if only for a few hours. I check out, pay the bill; and to the office. A whole two minute drive through the industrial estate and fish warehouses of the town.

After a coffee, I switch the computer on, and then avalanche of mails began. I have so much to do, and have to be on my way to the airport at ten, which gives me two hours to get things done. Being this stressed is exciting for sure, and in the end I think I get tasks done, I say bye to everyone, load my bag into the car, program the sat nav: 30 minutes. Lets go.

The town is a mix od modern houses and factory units/warehouses. Its not pretty, but I know the old part of town is pretty enough, but the modern part is pretty faceless. Even the old railway line has been dug up and replaced by a cyclepath, which means I am at least less distracted.

All along the main road, there are thousands of daffodils all nodding in the breeze, looking all purdy and springlike. No time to admire them as I take the turn onto the motorway and I am straight into thick traffic. I have three hours before my flight, but I like to be in time, anyway, I take my time, driving at less than 100kmh, with most traffic whizzing past me. On either side, the fields are broken up by ditches and dykes, with a few old fashioned windmills in the mix too. And all in warm spring sunshine. Were I not heading for one of the largest hub airports, I might have enjoyed it.

At Schipol, I follow the signs to drop the car off. I have done less than 60km all told. I get a signature meaning I have returned it undamaged. And then I am free for the hike to the airport and departure lounge. Along the endless travelators, down the slope, into the large hall above the railway platforms. On I go, up to the check in desks: I realise I can use the KLM machines, I get a boarding card, then queue up to check in my bag. And it is the first time I have seen this part being self service.

I scan my boarding card, place the case in the booth. A tag is printed, I attach it to the case. It is weighed, am I happy it asks? Maybe. The case vanishes, and I can go to security and then onto immigration. I stop off for a smoothie and whilst I am sipping it, I make some calls. Its all going to crap. Really it is. Stuff that never goes wrong, goes wrong. Thankfully there is a team to deal with it, and so after half an hour, I make my way to the gate, and I can wait for the flight to board.

At the gate I see there is a snack booth: Hmmm, Indian chicken sandwich sounds nice, I think. It is microwaved, and is horrible. With the coffee it is €10 I won't see again. Jeez that was awful. Anyway, I will be OK until I am back in blighty when I can have a cuppa and a wad.

The flight is called, less than half full. Once again I have a row of seats to myself. I settle in, and close my eyes. The jets start, we are backed out. Its a short taxi to the runway, we are third in queue to take off. The two jets roar off with about just 30 seconds gap inbetween. The jets roar, we leap off down the runway, and into the air we go, leaving crowded Holland below us as we climb into he hazy sky. IN the 40 minute flight, they manage to serve drinks to everyone, but as soon as we reach cruising altitude, we are dropping towards London again.

England is shrouded in cloud, and on final approach we fly through a short downpour, with the rain running over the windows like a shower. But by the time we land we are in bright sunshine again. At least arriving at lunchtime means the airport is quiet, we go through immigration, collect our cases without really breaking stride. A two minute wait for a train to Stratford, but looking at my watch I know I am going to miss the quarter to two train by about 5 minutes.

I am right, I miss the train, so I go into the cafe, have a gingerbread latte and a large cookie. I check more work mails, my phone is about to die, enough life in the battery to fire of a mail and make a call. I have work to do when I get home then.

The train is half full when it arrives, but I get a seat, so relax in my seat. The final leg.

At Folkestone we pass the Orient Express, out on a lunch special, and the rich or those celebrating at just tucking into the first course as the train pulls out of Folkestone West, with a traditional Dixie Jazz band playing as the train leaves. The music peters out as the last carriage leaves the station. The musicians look at each other, turn and head out through the ticket office. Job done.

At Dover there is just one taxi waiting, I jump ahead of a hesitant couple who are wondering whether to hail a cab. Sorry guys, its mine. The driver, however, does not speak much English, so I explain how to get to the house; mixing it with the port traffic, up Jubilee Way, along the Deal Road, up the hill to home.

Inside, all three cats are waiting, and demanding food. Well, it is four in the afternoon. I have a cuppa, and then sit down to write the mails I have to. Jools arrives home at half five; do I want fish and chips for dinner? Oh yes.

So Jools goes back out, I make the brews. Once we have eaten, I am so tired, I have a shower, and we watch another old TOTP on BBC 4. The Vapors (again) Rush, The Police, some good stuff, and some rubbish too.

Is that it? OK, time for bed. Friday tomorrow. Then the weekends.