Friday 17th August 2018

In the summer, BA only runs one of the two flights from Billund to LCY, and it is usually the morning flight that gets binned. This, and as I was in Denmark, thought I would stay for the week for meetings, only once the flights booked found out that my boss had taken three days off, and on Friday, most of head office seems to work from home. All this meant that I wasted a day, really, in getting the evening flight home, working until half one, leaving just as those few who were in were thinking of starting a long weekend.

I would have eight more hours to do.

Which shows why I normally take the morning flight when I can, even with the early start from the hotel.

Which means I could sleep again without setting the alarm on the phone, laying in bed until I was good and ready to get up, dress and pack, then go down to check out and have breakfast.

And so to work, where I am struck by the fact there are only about 5 of us in the open plan office, where there are room for 50. I can even have my boss' desk as she is on holiday, drunk with power I try to give everyone the day off, but there is no one nearby to hear.

I stay until after lunch, and with just about all caught up, I decide to take a long way to the airport, try to find the nice looking bridge and river I was driven over during the team event back in May. I was sure of the town, but there are a few bridges, how hard could it be to find a bridge?

Very hard as it turned out.

I drove out of the car park and onto the motorway, taking the exit on the new road east, turning off just as traffic began to build due to hay bales that had fell of a lorry, and policemen were trying to gather them up.

I drove into the centre of Silkeborg, and following the map on the dash, cross and recross the river, lakes around the town, and I do not find the attractive scene I hoped to photograph whilst walking beside the river. But crossing all bridges I could see, I failed to find the Norfolk Broad-like scene, so I programmed the sat nav to take me to the airport, and as I hoped it took me across country rather than back to the motorway.

We pass through woods, across fields of harvested wheat and other crops, through small towns, some with attractive churches, but I don't stop.

But I do stop at a lay by as the roads were once again lines with bobbing blue flowers, and I really wanted to find out what they were.

One closer inspection, I thought maybe some kind of Scabious, but turns out it was Thrift, or Sea Thrift, and although miles from the sea, the plants thrive on the salt used to clear the roads of snow in the winter months, so the verges are dotted with blue.

Also mixed in were many tall yellow Tansy, and a few Field Scabious too. I am sure I get some odd looks as I walk back up the road as traffic hammers by a feet or so from me.

But I was satisfied.

I got back in the car and drove the remaining 30km to the airport, parking the car at the lot and walking to the terminal to drop the keys in. As hoped, there were no queues at the BA desk, nor at security, so I was into the departure hall in a few minutes, where I thought the company should treat me to coffee and a sticky bun. Or, as it turned out, some light creamy thing covered in chocolate with caramel mixed in with the cream. I should have had the rhubarb cake, really, but these looked so wonderful.

When the flight was called, there was just the 19 of us on it, and most of the passengers either worked for Lego or my company.

We board the flight, and with minimum of fuss soon are taxing down to the end of the runway, turning over the piano keys so quick it felt like one set of wheels left the ground. The engines roard and we were off down the runway, leaping into the air and into the low fluffy white clouds.

As usual, I snooze as we fly over Holland and out into the North Sea, but do notice all the flood defences that line the coasts of Holland and Belgium to protect their land from the stormy North Sea. In Norfolk, they have sand dunes.

No flyover of Central London this time, with the wind set in the west, we cruise down the Thames, over Essex and the Dartford Crossing, getting lower until with a bang, we touch down. That woke everyone up.

Once in the terminal, I clear immigration, claim my case and am onto the DLR station with just a two minute wait for a train to Stratford. The plan is to catch a train from Stratford, and Jools would meet me at Ebbsfleet, and we would then go to find a country pub for dinner and catch up. All sounded great, and nothing could possibly go wrong.

And the Gods were looking down on me, as I arrived at Stratford, there was a train to Margate in three minutes, giving me just enough time to get onto the platform as the train pulled in, allowing me to get on board before the doors closed, and Jools was now just ten minutes away.

And then came the route announcement; and the first stop was at, Ashford.

Bugger.

I asked a woman standing opposite me, is that right?

Oh yes.

So, once out of the East London tunnel, across Rainham Marshes, under the Thames, we zoom past Ebbsfleet, where Jools is waiting, at something like 140mph, I sigh, and the train carries on to Ashford.

Most passengers pile out, but I take me and my case to the other platform to wait for the next train north to London, and I check that it will stop at Ebbsfleet this time.

So, I finally arrive at Ebbslfeet, some 50 minutes after I should, the up service arriving at the same time as a full down service, so that the platform and concourse was heaving with people.

I meet Jools by the car, I had done a search of places to eat in the area, and found that the best place was called The Hot Rod Diner in Northfleet. So, we drove over there, parking in what seemed to be a former garage and getting the only free table.

Service came with a smile, and was quick, and as the diner emptied as the clock ticked towards nine, the waitresses could relax a little and talk some.

I had a brisket burger, that is a burger topped with three day smoked brisket, and was as great as that sounded. All eaten to a 50s soundtrack, of course.

Did we want to see the desert menu?

Hell no.

All there was to do now was to drive home, 55 miles down the A2, traffic thinned out once past Chatham and Rochester, and again once past Faversham and Canterbury.

We got home at half ten, time enough to have a brew and post a couple of blogs. But we were both pooped, and Scully was making it clear that it was time for bed, and who were we to argue?