Tuesday 31st May 2016

It seems that on Monday night, Mulder's attention of Jools as she prepared for bed meant that the alarm went unset. I mention this as as dawn's pale light sneaked round the curtains, and Scully nibbled my toe, I looked at the alarm clock to see it said half five.

We had to be out of the house at quarter to six.

PANIC

So, I wake Jools, go to the bathroom, then dress, get my stuff togather, and Jools does the same, and we are ready to roll at 05:44. Outside it was lashing down, like stair rods, as someone might say who knew what a stair rod was.

We load the car up, and get in, the rain fell harder. Apparently.

Jools drives carefully, so we make it to Folkestone without trouble, I get out, buy my ticket, and find that with it being half term, still, that there was room in the buffet to get a coffee. Just as well, really.

It is still banging it down when the train pulls in, I settle into my preferred seat and wait for departure. At Folkestone and Ashford, people get on who are doing very good impressions of drowning rats. I am dry, however.

We arrive at Stratford, and with 40 minutes before I can check in my bag, I call in at the station cafe for more coffee, sausage roll and large white chocolate cookie. I know how to roll.

I take the DLR to the airport and find it in chaos. I join the queue with my tagged bag which clearly states it is for the self tagged bag drop. Not hard is it? But it is for the family of four all draped in expensive designer gear, and the two Italian ladies with four cases each who hog the desk for quarter of an hour. I fume.

When asked how I was by a member of staff I replay I am fed up being with idiots all around. Mrs Designer gear looks round at this, and I give her my best "yes, that comment was aimed at you and your family" look.

They have the last laugh when I am told my flight was not leaving from there today, but from Southend. Report to the ticket desk in 90 minutes for taxis.

I bump into Peter from Thanet, so we catch up, have a coffee and do some synchronised tutting; it;s the British way of showing extreme displeasure. At ten, we pile into a taxi, then sit for ten minutes whilst he tries to get approval for his cab to leave the car park, then me pull out into the heavy traffic, but thankfully, thanks to the heavy rain, we can;t see out of the windows. The driver probably can;t either I guess.

We arrive at the airport, and there is no one waiting, which is just the opposite of what we were told would happen. However, after some short words, someone opens a check in desk, so we can check in. Again, hang our bags over. And we are told to go through security and told to wait for boarding instructions.

We wait. We drink Cokes and eat jalapeno crisps. And then wait some more.

Suddenly, the departure board tells us we can go to gate 6, and we are shown through and allowed to climb on. The ten of us spread ourselves about the plane, but are corralled together so to fix the pane's centre of balance, so happy with us squished together, we can leave.

It is still raining.

In Denmark, however, the sun is shining, and it is 20 degrees. This is a world turned upside down, I swear.

I get my bag and the keys to a Ford C Max, ready for the drive to the coast. Its so warm I have both front windows wound down. I just needed a Beach Boys eight track cartridge. And an 8 tracks cartridge player, obviously, and it would be perfect.

As long as it was the edited version of Pet Sounds without Sloop John B on, as I hate that track with a passion.

It is four by the time I arrive in Esbjerg, too late to go to the office, so I go to the hotel, and check in, check my mails once I am in my room and begin to ponder my main work for the week; the great update.

I am hungry, so go down to dinner at half five, have my fill of burger, fries and beer, then should go back upstairs to work. But my mind wanders, and I put it off until tomorrow, as usual.