Thursday 4th May 2017

I can remember when "May the 4th be with you" was actually new and funny. That it was Dave Lee Travis, who I remember saying it, makes me shudder knowing now what he was really like as a person. Anyway, the 4th of May and so called Star Wars Day. Now if only there was a film good enough to remember. Sorry if you are a fan, I'm sure they were good when you were a kid, but for me, even the one that came out last year. Well, not earth shattering if I'm honest.

I woke up to find Twitter in a right tizz; apparently during the night, there was news that there was going to be an announcement from Buckingham Palace in the morning, and so the world and his wife jumped to conclusions and decided one of the older royals had died, or Liz abdicated. I saw people who I thought were sane, staying up half the night to find out what the reason was. When Diana died, radio, even Radio 1 played solemn music wall to wall, and so I suppose if that was the case this week if someone had died, there would have been that solemn music playing. No hint on Radio 2 and same on Radio 4, in fact they seemed chirpy as anything. People had published shots of TV and radio vans parked outside the palace, so something was going down. Radio 4 gave a list of items it was going to cover in the hour after the announcement was due to be made, no sign of anything untoward.

So, with just a day trip, there was no packing to be done, just have coffee, have breakfast and go. Oh, and get dressed of course. I left at about half six, going down through the port and up the A20 to Folkestone over the other side. A ferry had just docked, but the traffic had not yet reached Townwall Street, so I made good time, using the car's horses to power up Shakespeare Cliff and towards the Tunnel terminal.

I checked in, but got singled out by customs for a complete car search, stopping short of taking the bloody wheels off. Is this your car, sir? No. Can you open the bonnet? Maybe, give me time. With nothing other than my work bag to look at, and pass comments on how clean the engine was: its done less tan 2,000 miles I say.

I can go.

To the lounge where I have just missed the 04:20 train, and the ten to one had been cancelled, so I make the most of it, get some lunch and sit down to drink a coffee and check Twitter to see if Prince Philip had indeed died. Of course he had just retired from public life, wanting not to be seen growing frail in public life. Bless. I shocked the staff at the tunnel by saying not only would I not be bothered if one of them had died, but that it would be an ideal opportunity to scrap them all.

The Austrian behind the counter was shocked, but the young British Lady looked at me if I had done something so unspeakably vile and crass. Maybe I had. But as I explained they really don't do anything, have no other job than being royals. We could sell them off, make some money for the country I suggested. They looked at me as if I were mad and went back to refreshing Twitter to see who had died. No one had, we just didn't know it then.

Time to board, I say goodbye, and walk to the car and drive to the waiting lane, and in a couple of minutes we were allowed to drive to the platform and join the line of buses and vans boarding the carriages without the upper deck. I snap a shot as we drive on, and is below:

I know how wonderful this is, driving on to a train, which then travels under the sea to France and I can use my mobile all the time, or read an edition of WSC. Or two.

We emerge into brighter weather in France, and after pulling into the terminal, allowed to drive away, onto the motorway. You know the drill by now, up the E45, past Dunkirk into Belgium then turning off to Ostend before Bruge. I took my time, as I arrived in France at half nine, rush hour had died down, so I made my way north, weaving in and out of the trucks trundling also north.

I arrive at the office just before eleven. Maybe ten minutes before. Colleagues wave from their desks as I get out of the car, and it really is rather wonderful to be greeted so well. I am met with heart handshakes and hugs. All overwhelming really. What did I do to deserve this?

Anyway, after the greetings and a coffee, onto work and checking databases and documents. The project manager is there, so there is a good amount of high spirits about, even more so as we all sit down for lunch, grilled smoked sausages and salad and fresh bread. All very nice and civilised.

Much the same in the afternoon, except to take time out for us to drive in convoy to Carfours on a beer purchasing trip; we all buy four and six packs of Trappist ale, all quite cheap. We all know the trip is coming to an end, so take the chance to buy a few extra beers, then drive back to the office ready before it is time to leave again.

At five, I am all caught up, so go round saying farewell to people. It really is the end of things, as by the time I come back from vacation, it will all be over. So, goodbye one and all, see you on the next project.

Back to the car, turn the air con up one notch as the sun had come out and was now very nearly warm. And drive to the main road, then out along the canal before joining the motorway just before the intersection where I can turn off for the run south back to France.

More light traffic, meaning its another pleasant run south, Flanders in spring really is rather wonderful, and seeing it even better as this counts as work, apparently.

In Calais, I stop off at the wine warehouse for, well, wine and cider, and some Indian Curry flavour crisps. And why not?

Two junctions down is the turn off for the tunnel, I check in, get through immigration in ten minutes, have enough time in the lounge for a coffee and be given a box of biscuits in lieu of the gift box feating a bottle of red wine, as they only had white. Coffee drunk, I drive to the waiting lane, then onto the platform and then onto the train, it was twenty past seven.

We arrive back in England half an hour before we left, and by the time we got off the train it was seven. I was to pick up fish and chips on the way home, so instead of the main road, I take the Alkham Valley road to Whitfield, wait in line at the chippy, get the order, cover with salt and malted vinegar and drive home, getting back at half seven. And that is it for travel until June.

Other than the holibob of course.

So, Phil the Greek is retiring from insulting the ethnic peoples of the world and standing in the back row of groups of Royals looking very angry. Apparently he has served the country for 60 years, allowing himself to live in palaces, travel the work on a luxurious yacht. And this is loyal service. Apparently.