Thursday 6th October 2016

Instead of drunken bums waking me up in the middle of the night, it was my old friend indigestion. And then my brain thought it good to wake up too.

It was half past two.

I lay in the dark, and sleep wouldn't come. I check work mails. I edit some photos. I check the (early) news. At half four, I try to go back to sleep, I suppose I must have dropped off, but had odd dreams. I seem to remember chasing someone who stole a baby in Morocco.

In truth, I was glad to wake up when the alarm went off, although the bags under my eyes did suggest I had been fighting. Maybe I had and I just couldn't remember.

I get up, shower and pack. Yay, going home.

Downstairs I settle the bill, a huge amount for a hotel with such small rooms and no parking. Last time I'm staying there for sure. There is breakfast, and still the butter/cheese confusion goes on. Maybe cheese with Nutella would be good. Or not.

I pay the parking bill; another €22, then manage to lean over the width of the car at the barrier to put the ticket in the machine and the barriers lift and I am free. As I drive, the bottles in the boot rattle and clank. There will be drinking sometime. But not for breakfast.

I am expecting the day from hell. But all is quiet.

Until just before I am about to leave for Calais, when the mouth of hell opened and a world of shit rolled down upon me. Oh how I laughed.

But enough about that, at least I could enjoy the drive down to the port. I think I have plenty of time, until just inside France, the road was closed for about 10m at a junction, but all southbound traffic was forced off the motorway, down the sliproad, round a roundabout and back up. That there was nothing going on back on the closed section was a little annoying.

Calais is a little mad, with speed restrictions and the motorway twisting and turning, then at the tunnel entrance, there are queues for the British immigration checks, as, you know, those bloody open borders we hear so much about we can't just drive through.

As a result, I make the train I booked for, and drive straight for the platforms, and after a minute wait, onto the train. Less than 90 minutes after leaving the office, I was on the train. And 35 minutes later we arrive in Folkestone, and after the usual short delay in the doors opening, I can drive out onto the A20 back to Dover, whilst most traffic is on its way to that London. With the clocks going back an hour during the crossing, I am back home at quarter to three.

The cats said "meow".

After a brew, I unload the car, taking box after box of wine and beer into the house, finding places to store it.

I am bushed, I mean worn out. I put the TV on and watch open mouthed as the boys repair some sportscar on Wheeler Dealers,with the sound turned down, as i can only guess as to what it is they are trying to fix.

Jools come home with fish and chips. I have the brews ready and the bread and butter. So all is well with the world, other than she was in work at five that morning, and I had been on the go since before then. No wonder we watch The Sky at Night like zombies, trying hard to keep our eyes open before giving in at nine.

We go to bed, and I drop off with Scully curled up onder the duvet and me curled up around her. I fall asleep with er purring vibrating the mattress.