Monday 3rd October 2016

Monday

And today, a new phase in my working weeks, or weeks, started, the first of the near weekly commute to Ostend. Or Oostende if you want to sound like a local. In which case should be said whilst holding a waffle.

I have the hire car, I need to pack, book a place on the tunnel and just get to the terminal; simple.

Jools is up and about, I lay in bed until I can smell the coffee brewing, then it is time to get up. I find time to watch a couple of the games from previous day’s MOTD, then pack, book travel and choose the ten to ten train.

Its another glorious autumnal day, sun shines from a clear blue sky, even if the countryside looks very brown now that that the colours of summer have faded.

Having a right hand drive car, I have stop to pick up some headlight adaptors from the terminal, thus missing my booked train, I wait for the next one to be called, only for it to be pulled just before we were due to board. I have a coffee and a roll from Starbucks, and watch as a party of schoolchildren enter the terminal and fill the empty space with excited chatter.

Ten to eleven, and time to board, so I walk back to the car, fit the adapters and drive to immigration; first the UK one who look at me with suspicion, then to the French one who, like always, waves us through with the slightest of Gallic movements of his hand.

I have Radio 6 on the hi fi, the sun is shining, and I’m about to cross to France on a train, in my car, and this is work. Even waiting in line for 15 minutes isn’t a drag.

We are allowed to drive to the platform, down the ramp and then onto the train, filling it with our cars, driving along the long silver tube of the carriages, and once we are parked, the doors at the end of each carriage close and the air conditioning starts, as does my sneezing.

We pull out of the terminal and into the tunnel, rattling and shaking our way to France, where once the train stops and the doors open, we drive off onto the motorway, and I urn north. Once I have stopped off at the wine warehouse of course. There was the argument with the lorry driver as he failed to indicate to pull off an on ramp to join the motorway, and so refused to let him out, he seemed very angry about that for some reason.

But once out of Calais, the drive was pleasant in light traffic, although it had clouded over and a light drizzle began to fall.

Off the motorway and down an A road to Ostend, though the strip mall, and to the harbour and the office where there was a desk for me. Not my own one, someone elses, but one I could use. I almost burst into tears, a desk nearly of my own after four years…..

At five, I drive to the hotel, or the underground garage near it, pick up my work bag, my camera bag and amy case with enough clothes for two weeks away, and walk the two blocks to the hotel.

After settling in, we are all to meet at six to find a place to eat, some seven of us. We walk to an art deco place called Den Artiste, a wonderful building with a charcoal pit on which they do all the cooking. We have the only table on a mezzanine floor, overlooking the tables below, and with views of the finely carved wooden panels.

The food is great; scampi in some spicy sauce followed by a Brazilian steak cooked lightly. And good beer too. Man, this is a great country. With waffles.

We are stuffed, and tomorrow I have a long train journey, and the others have work, so we call it a night before nine and walk back to our hotels/flats.