Friday 22nd April 2016

Thursday

Due to the fact I have a mod-morning flight, I have the delight of another lay in, if I want. But as usual, the Scandinavian dawn had other ideas, with it getting light before half five and as I opened the curtains the sun showed over the rooftops of the town.

I put the computer on so I can listen to some more radio whilst laying in bed; now that is luxury. Outside, the world wakes up, and I yawn and close my eyes. Time ticks on.

I have a shower, get dressed and pack. I work out that I had to be at the airport two hours before my flight so I could check in my luggage, so after paying the bill, I have breakfast, and for the last time before the holibobs, load my gear into the hire car for the drive to the airport.

The glorious sunrise had given over to menacing low clouds, flying quickly from horizon to horizon. So, with little to snap, I take to the main road out of town, then take the road towards Billund, going in an almost straight line north over the low rolling countryside, interspersed with light woodland and small villages. There are no trucks around, so I put my foot down and power over the flat landscape, enjoying all the spare horses that the car had to offer. And this is work.

I arrive at the airport, drop the car off and walk to the terminal. Flying no BA meant a queue to get a boarding card, as the self-check in machine said, with no trace of irony, our records show you are traveling with an infant; is this correct. I am given the option of pressing either a yes no button. I press the no button, and the computer has a hissy fit and spews out a form which it informs me I have to present to a representative. When I do this, she says I am the twelfth to have had this that morning.

I get two boarding passes and say goodbye to my case which I am sure won't make the transfer in Amsterdam as I have only 55 minutes.

I check mails and try not to spend any money in the shops; although The Simpsons Kwik E Mart in the Lego shop looked good, but not at £235 good.

There is no boarder check, as my first hop is only to Amsterdam, so I settle into my aisle seat and wait for the engine start and the taxi to the runway. All the time I am looking at my watch imagining the seconds slipping by to me making the next flight.

We land, and as soon as the plane comes to a stop, I am up and waiting to get off. Last time I had what seemed like a four mile route march to the gate, I manage to get off fairly quickly, and find that despite being at gate D59, it was a two minute walk to immigration, and on the other side I could see gate D1, and I needed gate D7. It did not tkae much to work out that I was very close and could relax as I still have ten minutes before boarding started, and 40 before the flight left.

And I had a window seat, so could watch as we taxied apparently to the Belgian boarder before taking off for the hop over the Channel. There was tome for drinks and a slice of dake to be dished out to everyone. We were on final approach when the came to collect the trash. I couldn't see much with half the view of the ground being blocked by one of them engine thingys. Anyway, I try to work out where we are, only recognising the Thames as we turn onto final, getting lower and lower until we were down on the ground. Welcome to the Englands; please queue here!

There is a rush to get off, but I have an hour and a half to get to St Pancras, so I wait until there is a gap. I find we are at terminal 4, and we seem to be the only flight arrival, and so am through immigration and waiting for my bag, which I am sure is still in Amsterdam. It rolls down the carousel, I grab it and make for the exit, wanting to get to the station for what I knew was a shuttle to terminal 3.

A train had just left, so there was a moment when I had the platform to myself; so I take a shot of it.

The shuttle arrives, and takes us to the next terminal, where it actually meets with a train to Paddington, so step of one onto another train, take my seat on the left hand side so I could look at the Crossrail work under the Westway as we neared Paddington.

It was three, and after fielding a call from my boss, I make my way to the tube station for a direct train to St Pancras, and once there I have an hour to kill before my train to Folkestone, where Jools would be waiting for me after leaving work, thus meaning I don't rush for the next train, instead I make my way to the Betjeman Arms for a pint. Or two. And a Scotch Egg.

I sit at one of the tables with views of the train shed, filled as it was with Eurostars. And this is work. I tell myself again.

Half an hour to go before departure, I make my way to the Southeastern platforms, and my train was in, so we wait a while for the doors to open, then pile on, me grabbing a seat with a table and aligned with a large wndo on my favourite side of the train.

I suppose it is half full by the time we leave at 16:36, and even after Stratford there are still seats. I close my eyes.

Jools is indeed waiting for me, so we drive through the town, round the harbour and up to Capel to avoid the traffic on the A20, arriving home just after 6. And I am spent.

We celebrate the weekend by having a brew with a Tunnocks Caramel Finger, which is very British, no Scottish. Anyway, it feels great to be home, and home now until we go to Japan.

Jools looks at the internet, and on the BBC it has announced that Prince has died; just like that. I switch mine on to check Twitter, it is true.

Jools goes out for a Chinese, which we wash down with beer/cider. And we are both pooped. So pooped we go to bed at nine again, but Jools has the morrow off. So, should we make plans?