Friday 23rd February 2018

I won't lie to you all, but Wednesday through Friday were hard days, being away from home, under the thumb of flu, and on Friday I had to get myself to the plane to travel home, and waking up at five in the morning, I felt like death warmed up. Even with the heating off, the window open with the temperature being four below, I still woke up in a ball of sweat.

At half five I get my sorry ass out of bed, have a shower and pack my stuff, ready to leave when breakfast started at six. I pay the bill and then go for coffee. Mostly coffee. Oddly enough even with what must have been less than three hour's sleep, I didn't feel that bad.

It was already getting light outside, which meant I would be distracted by the sky and colours as I drove. But in the end it was the classic radio station that distracted me more, as they kept playing clips of Tarzan Boy by Baltimora and Our House by Madness. Turns out it was a battle, and listeners voted for their favourite. Somehow, Tarzan Boy won, which came something of a surprise. Now, whenever I say I'm going to Aarhus, people say to me, Aarhus, the middle of our street? And I laugh, it goes through my mind at least once when I'm over here. Wonder if Danes have that too?

Traffic is light, but with lorries in the distance, there was no point in rushing, so I settle down at 90, or just under and enjoy the drive. What I can say is that radio commercials in Danish is no less convincing than in English. I won't be shopping at the Circle K.

I arrive at the airport, drive the car to the drop off lot, and when I get out of the car, another driver smiles at me and seems to be waiting for me. Ian isn't it? he said. You may not remember me, he added, we went to a Chinese restaurant in Oostende last year with Soren. I remember going, I can have a stab at guessing what I had to eat, but this guy, no idea.

And he was a bloody cheerful morning person. And there's me. The opposite. With flu. And he walks with me to the terminal, and is behind me in the queue for security, and is chatting away about people I don't know. He is going to the lounge, would I like hom to sign me in? I wanted to be alone in my misery, so I decline saying I have just an hour to wait before my flight, and he leaves.

I get a table and look at my mails for the first time in 20 hours, and it seems that all of my contacts are bloody angry. At each other. I really don't care, but I try to put out a few fires, make a call, but as Katherina hears, I can barely speak between bouts of coughing and sneezing. I will be going straight to bed when I get home I tell her. She herself is recovering from a bout.

It is time to board the flight, so I walk down to the far end of the terminal, but what is unusual was that I was the only one walking down there. Turns out there were just six other passengers, and they were already waiting.

Outside the sun had risen, and it shone brightly through the slight mist drifting across the airfield. We could sit wherever we wanted, so I took a seat at the back on the other side of the plane, in case we landed from the west as I have been planning a shot of The Shard for three years.

The pressurised plane played havoc with my ears and sinuses. I decline breakfast and just concentrate of breathing. Outside the plane, the clear skies of Denmark gives way to fluffy clouds. My English teacher would hate me using that term for clouds, but they did look fluffy. So. Beneath them, the sea was flat calms, with boats and ships forging a path through it.

The plane dropped, and as we neared the Essex coast, I already knew we were going to skirt south London before turning along the river.

We do turn near to The Shard, not quite what I had seen once before when I did not have a camera on me, but I get a couple shots of the building, as ugly as it is, still is impressive.

Down we go, over Tower Bridge, and The Dome and down. Five of the seven other passengers still queue to get off.

We had landed 15 minutes ahead of schedule, so I am fairly confident I will catch the early train back to Dover meaning I could be home by 11.

Heck, we had even parked at gate 5, a two minute walk to immigration, my case was first on the belt, and after walking to the DLR station, within two minutes a train for Stratford pulled in. I had 15 minutes to spare, in the end, time for a coffee if I wanted. But I go down onto the platform to wait, call for a taxi to meet me at Dover.

I climb on the train, slump into a seat, and close my eyes. I am only briefly away of the train pulling out, dozing my way home.

I have to wait 5 minutes for the cab, and it is bitingly cold out in the wind. I shelter next to a ticket machine until I see the car pull in. At least in using the same firm for a few years now, all their drivers know where I live, so all I have to say to them is "take me home". He is another cheerful bastard, but I don't mind as he's taking me home, Be as happy as you want, I will be in bed in ten minutes I thought.

The cats are non-plussed about my return, but do enquire about lunch. I make a brew, have a sandwich and go to bed. I don't sleep, as when I lay down I begin to cough, sounding more like a dog barking, so I toss and turn until I find a position where I can just lay there and close my eyes.

Jools comes home at just gone three, makes me a brew and has brought sticky buns home. I am tempted out of bed.

And that was the day, really. We sit and talk, have the radio on, and I am even well enough to make chorizo hash for dinner, mainly for the wine I hope would knock me out enabling me to sleep the night through.

Lets hope tomorrow will bring me some good health!