I thought I had said goodbye to all this: having to travel on a Sunday. But then it is probably my fault as I said I would travel any time. On Monday. Little did I know there was a flight at ten to eight, and a quit calculation on my part soon realized that there was no way I could get to the airport on Monday morning, therefore, I would have to travel on Sunday, if I could find a hotel room, and battle with the evil that is the rail-replacement bus. As Sundays is the day when engineering work is carried out.
But before then, there was coffee. And football. And bacon.
Coffee. Football. Bacon. Coffee.
Now I am ready to face the day. Only it is cloudy, windy and cold outside. We do some gardening, and what with one thing and another, the day was just frittered away. We sit in the garden drinking yet more coffee, eating chocolate, the cats come round, seeing what we were doing. Did we have any food for them?
Looking back it seemed we spent all day eating: scotch eggs for lunch, then some stewed rhubarb and cream to follow. I listen to some football, pack, have a shower, listen to some more football. And at six, it is time to head to the station. This time Ashford, as all lines out of Dover are closed due to engineering, and so the easiest thing is to drive to Ashford, grab dinner on the way, so I don’t have to suffer with the foot at the Travelodge in London.
We stop at Burger King, it is crap food, but sometimes it hits the spot. So, two chicken burgers, fries and a coke, and we are done. 15 minutes up the motorway to Ashford, I have 10 minutes to get a ticket, get up onto the platform. I make it just as the train is pulling in. I get a seat. We are treated to a wonderful sunset and evening as we zoom north, the sky is all reds and pinks, turning to purple and black.
Off at Stratford, a walk to the DLR station, and a short trip to the airport, and finally a short walk to the hotel, where it is even more short-staffed than last time. It is nine in the evening, and I am shattered, all I want to do is get my key and chill for half an hour before bed. But the electronic key does not work. The receptionist tries to reprogram the door lock, which takes more time, and in the end once I get in, I decide to stay in, just in case the does not work.
I flick through the TV channels, but nothing on, only a Star Trek film, it diverts my attention for a while. I catch the news, and then, it is time for bed, as I have to be up at half five in the morning. The news is full of the election, no real news on policies, just Tory Boy slating all others and tarring them with scare stories. Rather than talk about his record as PM. As is the way.
Monday
I woke up at ten to six. Outside the traffic was jumping, the whales were humping, and everyone was working from nine to five. Or something. OK, so there was no whales, but there was traffic.
I got dressed, packed and went downstairs to hand the key in and walk the five minutes to the airport. In the east, the sun rose like a very angry blood ornage, turning the sky very angry. I knew I should not have had that cheese the night before. Taxis were running to the airport, then getting stuck in traffic after the drop off, I was happy knowing that I was as fast as the traffic beside me, and it was costing me or the company nothing.
Instead of admiring the sunrise, I went into the terminal, checked in and went up to security. I had an hour, so I had breakfast. I tried to order poached eggs on toast, which had ordered from the place before, but he tried to make me order eggs benedict or eggs royale. Or some other fancy egg-based muck. So I called his bluff and ordered a full English, but with COFFEE! Ha ha ha.
It was good. I had another coffee. Paid the bill. Wandered a bit. Bought the new Al Murray book, and watched the departures board. Like everyone else.
The flight was called: Amsterdam here we come.
Only we had to wait for the plane, or some other such rubbish. Then it had to be re-fueled. Like any ful no. The they let us on board. Then we had to wait. And wait. And wait, so we were like 20 whole minutes late leaving. Bastards.
I made them serve me fresh orange juice to make up for it. Although everyone else got it too. But not until we had defied the laws of gravity, buy obeying the laws of flight, using a combination of thrust and lift, we soared into the air, over the w=swarming mass that used to be the east end, but now is mainly hedge fund managers sipping triple skinny machatos. Or something.
We flew along the Thames, out over Essex, leaving dear old Blighty behind, not knowing when I would be back. Until I looked at my e ticket and it said Wednesday.
40 minutes they said the flight would be, so why did it seem to take like forever to cross the Channel? Hmmm. We got lower, went round and round, passing over a new wind farm being built. I counted the turbines that had been installed, they were on the tenth. I realized that this was MY project, MY windfarm. It wasn’t a dream and Bobby was not in the shower!
Yes, it is all too real, and somehow I am this manchild playing the part of the renewables hot shot in this man’s world. How on earth did I get away with it? I have no idea. But here I am, about to land in naughty Amsterdam, for three days or meetings and wind turbine related malarkey.
I know the airport by now, I know where immigration is. I know where the baggage reclaim is. I know where the car hire place is. I even know where to collect the hire car from. However, once I am out on the mean streets of Holland, I take the wrong direction and am driving south, thinking theres something not quite right here.
I argue with the car as to how the sat nav works. Or how it should work. The car does not listen, and instead I have to do it the way the four wheeled monster wants. But once we both agreed as to where we were going, I found a way to turn round, and off we went to wonderful Ijmuiden an Zee. Up the motorway, beside the canal, and into the town, past the fish factory, past the other fish factory, round the fish factory, and between some more fish factories. Past the cruise terminal, and onto the office.
Work. Coffee. Work. Coffee. And so on until six.
I drive the 400 yards to the hotel. Those last 50 are the worst. I check in, drop my bags in the room, grab the camera and go for a walk. It looks warm, it should be warm, but with the wind in the east, it feels cold. But being made of English fibre, or fat, I wear no coat, wear no scarf tied in a fancy dan way, now, armed with just a camera and a photographer’s eye, I walk to the dunes, over then and onto the beach. Where the tide has gone out, people are flying kites, and worried looking beach bar tenders look for custom.
But I have photography on my mind, and if that means getting salt water on my hundred pound boots, thus ruining them all in the name of getting the shot, so be it.
The seagulls flee at my artistic integrity, I snap away.
Back in the hotel I order burger, fries and a beer. And inbetween sips of dark ale, I read Al Murray. Not a bad evening after all. And, remember, somehow I am getting paid for this. I draw the line at Crème Brulee, but there is always tomorrow night I tell myself. The internet in my room does not work, so I watch a bit of TV, and go to bed before half ten for once. But only just before half ten. Standards have to be upheld you know.
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