Wednesday 23rd September 2015

Tuesday.

In the end, I did sleep well. Well until half four when the alarm went off. I dressed, cleaned my teeth and got dressed, then began the hunt for the restrooms, as I did not have an en suit room. I found one down on the groundfloor in the bar: is there are more sad sight than a bar in the cold light of morning, bare of warm light, laughter and people? Only, wasn't in the cold light of morning, it was still dark.

That done, now was the great search for a taxi. Most doors into Waterloo station were still closed, but I found my way up to the main concourse, then followed the signs for the rank, back outside into the cold early morning air. Of course, a railway station before either the first arrival or departure is a quiet place, with mostly the bleary-eyed, hung over or night workers milling around, or making their way to the one coffee bar open that time of day.

The taxi rank had half a dozen cars waiting, the drivers milling around, chatting away. I got in one, and off we set into the dark city streets, with the traffic lights blinking and stopping invisible traffic. We pass over the Thames crossing Westminster Bridge, passing the unlit Houses of Parliament and into Parliament Square, where all demonstrations have now been cleared, there seems to be no right to protest under this Government. As there is no right to health care or social support, but hey, we're all in this together, right?

Up Whitehall, crossing through one of the Parks to Buckingham Palace and then on to Paddington. There is no one about, but I had just missed the first train to the airport. I walk down onto the station concourse, buy a ticket, now at £35 for a return trip of two 15 minutes: all hail the triumph of the privatised railways! I get in a carriage and wait for the departure at five twenty five. We glide out, and are bombarded with ads from the TV screens: I paid for this, apparently.

Outside was still inky black, so I see little of London as we rattle along to Kilburn, then into the tunnel to the station.

For some reason there are just lifts upto the departure hall, so there is a mad panic to squeeze everyone into the first that arrives, then up we go. Across the hall to the self check in machine, get my boarding card, and as I have no bags to check in, straight to security and through in a few minutes. BA e mail with my gate, B46, I follow the signs, only to find I have to take a shuttle train; I now have 40 minutes before the flight, and am still not at the gate.

I find the gate, and there is a throng of people waiting to get on, so I grab a coffee and a dry scone from a bar that is open, and make both disappear before the gate is open and we can board. I am allocated a window seat that has no window: some mistake?, it is in the final row on the port side, but I can rest my head on the fuselage and snooze. Only the flight is full, and the bloke next to me is reading the Torygraph and making a great fuss of turning the broadsheet pages.

So, I have to guess by the aircraft's movements what is happening as we taxi and make ready for take off. The captain tells us once airborne that due to conditions, it is unsafe to serve hot drinks! NO COFFEE! Oh dearie dearie me. I refuse the offer of a soggy croissant stuffed with cured pig, our Prime Minister might have been near it. So doze as we lump and bump our way over the channel to Brussels.

We touch down, and taxi to the stand. I am in no hurry to get off, so let the others all off first, but then I have no real choice, being right at the back of the plane. A long walk down a long corridor to immigration, where an unfeasably long wait took place, I mean, who would be coming to Belgium in September? Just Belgians, I guess. I get a text message front he others, so walk to the car hire office and wait for our final colleague to arrive. And once he does, we walk to the garage and pile into two cars and drive to the city of Leuven, round Brussels's very busy ring road. Rain falls, and the sat nav leavs directions until the last minute, which results in an 'interesting' journey. But, we soon pass the Stella Artois brewery, turn down a series of ever-increasingly narrowing streets until we come to a housing estate with public parking in the basement.

We have arrived.

Once the meeting had finished, we had just enough time to go to a bar in the city centre for a glass of the local beer. I thought it was going to be a swish place, on a main shopping street, but had all but sawdust on the floor, and a right collection of characters at the bar, most with teeth missing, and clearly very regular customers. We took half the bar up, but had a couple of beers. I spent the time people watching, but not too close, just in case they minded. They all spoke Flemish, a mix of Dutch and French I think, and might have been Japanese as I understood none of it.

We drank up and walked back to the car, then drove to the airport back along the very busy ring road. It was a relief to arrive, in plenty of time and be able to check in then look for a place to eat. I had eaten only snacks all day, so a decent meal would have been nice, only to find in the terminal the flight from London just had a snack bar; so a sandwich and a huge glass of Stella it was then!

I while away the time until the gate opened, then walked to board using my frequent flyer card, but then with no large bags, it wasn't an issue for me. But still, nice to get on and watch the greedy stupid people trying to find space for their bags, and being told only one bag allowed in the overheads, the other ones they will have to have with them or under the seat in front, thus reducing their footroom. Still, all they have to do is check in their bags, no?

We all all on board and bags stowed, so we can leave. In fact we are taxiing before everyone has sat down.

We take off into clouds, but it clears as we cross the channel once again, crossing the coast at Foulness Island like the flights from Denmark do, only we are about ten thousand feet higher. Then comes the news that we will have to stack for 20 minutes before landing. So I am treated to glorious views over South Essex into Central London as we circle and get lower. The sun sets and dusk creeps over the land, streetlights brighten the view between the darkness of fields and parks. We are then on final as we fly low over central London, but my view is tot he south so see nothing of the grand buildings or river.

We are down, back in Blighty, but it is eight in the evening, and I have to get into London, cross it to St Pancras and then a train home: it was going to be a late one. But I hoped that Jools maybe has come to meet me in the car, in which case I will have her with me, and should be home an hour earlier.

This is indeed the case, I get a text from her saying she is on the way, stuck in traffic but moving. I get through security and make my way to the car park to wait.

She arrives and I offer to drive, I can at least work from home tomorrow, so the drive will not be so bad on me. And leaving from terminal 5, getting back onto the motorway is easy, and traffic is light enough to almost make it a pleasure driving home. We stop off to fill up and I get a pasty for supper; more snacking, before we take to the road again, only to find the motorway is closed from Maidstone again, so we will have to make a detour to the A2.

Which is what we do, we make good time, but even still it is nearly ten by the time we get indoors. I am parched so Jools makes a brew, and already it is half ten. Time for a shower and that is it. a 19 hour day.

Pooped.