Tuesday
How can I be sure that the sore throat and coughing I woke up with at half two in the morning is a cold and not an allergy attack? All I can say is, that it feels different, there is that sandpaper feel in the back of my throat, its not an allergy. Probably. I have indigestion too from the curry as it was all smothered in garlic. So, being wide awake now, I get up and mess around on the computer some, and mess around for nearly two hours. I go back to bed and get two more hours in, I am confused because for reasons I can't even explain, the time on my mobile is set to Danish time, so when I look at it and it says a minute to seven, it is a minute to six. In London.
I have a shower, pack, get dressed and am ready for breakfast by quarter past seven. So I walk round the hotel via the wandering corridor, down in the lift. I am charged the twelve quid for breakfast, but I can eat as much as I want. I make do with a bowl of fruit followed by pancakes and syrup. If I wanted bacon, it would have cost me another seven quid for cooked food. I do without, but ponder a commando raid for some TSP.
Thinly Sliced Pork.
I pay the bill without even looking at what I am charged, so used am I to this travel malarkey. That done, I can walk down Tottenham Court Road, then through Fitzrovia to Langham Square. Same walk as the day before, only this time dragging my overnight case. I give the poor guy begging outside a coffee shop the last of my change, then walk on until I arrive at Langham Square, cross that and am at the venue, and apart from the instructor, am the first to arrive.
I have more coffee. Of course.
And one by one the other arrive, until at just gone nine, we are ready to go. And here we go, eyes down, standards out.
We break for coffee, then lunch, afternoon coffee. After which we do some role playing, which despite being just that, is nerve wracking, but I think we do well enough, for a first stab. And opens our eyes to what we will face in the future. And then, just like that, it was all over. And all we had to do was get home. Only I was now on my own.
I had studied the Tube map, and thought the best way was to walk up to Regent Park station, go to Baker Street and then along to Kings Cross. What I can tell you is that spring has sprung in London; I mean its always warmer there, but with my shirt and tie on, and then a fleece, I am getting warm. There is a massive queue for the lifts in the station, so I take the stairs. The 96 stairs. At least they're going down I suppose, but by the time I get to the bottom I am officially warm.
I have to wait a minute for a train, then at Baker Street, up two flights of steps, along a corridor, down some more steps and there was a train waiting. Once inside I am sweating, but on the train. We sit there for 5 minutes, then trundle off. At least its just three stops, and looking at my watch I see that I had just missed a train to Folkestone, but at rush hour there were two an hour.
I walk the length of St Pancras, dodging the dawdlers with their cases. I reach the Southeastern platforms and see there is a train in a few minutes to Ashford. I double my pace and reach the first coach, get on to find it rammed. But I was on. I call Jools, who is surprised I will be so early. And there is a problem, there is the hire car.
Anyway, before we can clear that issue up, the train pulls out at five, and I lose the signal when we enter the long tunnel. Jools and I exchange texts, and she can pick me up, and will be at Folkestone as soon as possible, so no worries. I had just forgotten we were hiring a car as I need a car on my next three days off. Once a bloke gets off at Statford, I get one of the fold up seats, I have my coat off and am cooling down, but still hot.
I change at Ashford, wait just a couple of minutes before the connecting train arrives to take me closer to home.
I reach Folkestone at six, Jools arrives ten minutes later, in some kind of Japanese 4x4 thing, she will drop me off at the car hire place and I will drive our car back. Once I am in the car, I switch the work mobile off, and I let out a long sigh. I was on holiday.
I climb in our car, Jools drives off to KFC for some dirty food, and I drive home to feed the cats, and put the kettle on for when Jools comes home.
After we eat, I put the radio on, as there is football on. There is ALWAYS football on to be honest. But with the cats milling around, we see the evening out and give up on it at half nine and go to bed. I was still on holiday.....
Wednesday, 16 March 2016
Tuesday 15th March 2016
Monday
I wake up in another strange hotel room. No change there. And as ever, dawn is creeping round the edge of the curtains, and sounds from the already busy kitchen is floating in through my open window. It is just after six, and I don't have to be at the venue for three hours, but I feel the need to have music, so power up the laptop, find a new Radcliffe and Maconie show to listen to, then go back to lay down for an hour. As close as it gets to luxury.
At seven, I get up. Again. Have a shower, put on a shirt and tie (an trousers) and am ready for the day ahead. In the restaurant, I find that continental breakfast is proced at twelve pounds fifty, and a cooked breakfast is nineteen of your English pounds. However, I am not told the difference, so have fruit, bacon rolls, yoghurt, coffee, more coffee, and the hotel forgets to charge me for it I find out later. I think the twelve quid for the two breakfasts I have sounds much fairer, so call it quits.
I don't have too much to eat, as these course seem to think that we will starve with all the using our brains, so I don't overdo it. Not a bad decision as it turns out.
I could go by tube the one station, but work out that I won't be that much nearer the venue than I already was. So, I set out down Tottenham Court Road, hang a right pastt he base of the old Post Office Tower, GPO Tower, BT Tower or whatever it is called today. A small army of BT engineers are going in, maybe it broke
I am walking through and area now called Fitzrovia, a grand name for a district sandwiched between Kings Cross and Soho, all full of narrow streets and smart townhouses. I notice a couple of interesting old pubs, and ponder whether to call in on the way back to the hotel in the evening. Maybe I will.
I come out in Langham Square, most famous for being where BBC Broadcasting House is found, the Langham Hotel is opposite, and just at the top of Regent Street. And yet it is fairly quiet, with lots of free, if expensive, parking spaces. I am nearly an hour early, but the instructor is already there, so I take a seat and begin the day, as it will continue, by drinking several cups of coffee.
I am there for an update to an ISO standard, ISO 9001. I won't go into details, if you want, you can Google it and see if it sounds interesting. A revised version has just been published, and before companies transfer to the new version, we all have to learn about it. I am with a mixed bunch of other quality people; someone from Pepsi, London Underground, Network Rail, The Highways Agency, a couple of consultants from Norway.
The day begins. And goes on and on and on. There is no way to make it interesting, although we all have an interest in the subject, we do our best to stay attentive, which I think we do. We have regular coffee and cookie breaks, a good lunch, cake and more coffee in the afternoon. We finish at half four, and have little homework, which is unusual for a course like this.
I feel tired, so walk back to the hotel without stopping at either of the pubs in Fitzrovia, nor any on Tottenham Court Road, I have work to do once back at my room, and need to have a lay down.
I feel I should go into the City to take yet more shots, but the crowds outside will be just as bad down by the river, and once I do work, do homework, it is half seven, and I have to find somewhere for dinner. I could eat in the hotel, but that could be very expensive. Just down the road I had noticed a small curry house, so go there and have a prawn and lentil curry, rice and naan. And a beer. It came to a grand total of twenty four pounds.
I walk back to the hotel, past people calling in at the Tesco Metro and other smaller shops along the road for suppliers for dinner. It seems all so busy. I check with the pubs to see if they were showing the football. None were, so I make my way back to the hotel, and into the calm of the lift and the long and winding corridor back to my room. Leicester have just scored when I put the radio on, and hang on to win 1-0, thus extending their lead at the top, and doing City a favour by beating The Toon. I am happy with that, but still looks grim.
I wake up in another strange hotel room. No change there. And as ever, dawn is creeping round the edge of the curtains, and sounds from the already busy kitchen is floating in through my open window. It is just after six, and I don't have to be at the venue for three hours, but I feel the need to have music, so power up the laptop, find a new Radcliffe and Maconie show to listen to, then go back to lay down for an hour. As close as it gets to luxury.
At seven, I get up. Again. Have a shower, put on a shirt and tie (an trousers) and am ready for the day ahead. In the restaurant, I find that continental breakfast is proced at twelve pounds fifty, and a cooked breakfast is nineteen of your English pounds. However, I am not told the difference, so have fruit, bacon rolls, yoghurt, coffee, more coffee, and the hotel forgets to charge me for it I find out later. I think the twelve quid for the two breakfasts I have sounds much fairer, so call it quits.
I don't have too much to eat, as these course seem to think that we will starve with all the using our brains, so I don't overdo it. Not a bad decision as it turns out.I could go by tube the one station, but work out that I won't be that much nearer the venue than I already was. So, I set out down Tottenham Court Road, hang a right pastt he base of the old Post Office Tower, GPO Tower, BT Tower or whatever it is called today. A small army of BT engineers are going in, maybe it broke
I am walking through and area now called Fitzrovia, a grand name for a district sandwiched between Kings Cross and Soho, all full of narrow streets and smart townhouses. I notice a couple of interesting old pubs, and ponder whether to call in on the way back to the hotel in the evening. Maybe I will.I come out in Langham Square, most famous for being where BBC Broadcasting House is found, the Langham Hotel is opposite, and just at the top of Regent Street. And yet it is fairly quiet, with lots of free, if expensive, parking spaces. I am nearly an hour early, but the instructor is already there, so I take a seat and begin the day, as it will continue, by drinking several cups of coffee.
I am there for an update to an ISO standard, ISO 9001. I won't go into details, if you want, you can Google it and see if it sounds interesting. A revised version has just been published, and before companies transfer to the new version, we all have to learn about it. I am with a mixed bunch of other quality people; someone from Pepsi, London Underground, Network Rail, The Highways Agency, a couple of consultants from Norway.
The day begins. And goes on and on and on. There is no way to make it interesting, although we all have an interest in the subject, we do our best to stay attentive, which I think we do. We have regular coffee and cookie breaks, a good lunch, cake and more coffee in the afternoon. We finish at half four, and have little homework, which is unusual for a course like this.I feel tired, so walk back to the hotel without stopping at either of the pubs in Fitzrovia, nor any on Tottenham Court Road, I have work to do once back at my room, and need to have a lay down.
I feel I should go into the City to take yet more shots, but the crowds outside will be just as bad down by the river, and once I do work, do homework, it is half seven, and I have to find somewhere for dinner. I could eat in the hotel, but that could be very expensive. Just down the road I had noticed a small curry house, so go there and have a prawn and lentil curry, rice and naan. And a beer. It came to a grand total of twenty four pounds.
I walk back to the hotel, past people calling in at the Tesco Metro and other smaller shops along the road for suppliers for dinner. It seems all so busy. I check with the pubs to see if they were showing the football. None were, so I make my way back to the hotel, and into the calm of the lift and the long and winding corridor back to my room. Leicester have just scored when I put the radio on, and hang on to win 1-0, thus extending their lead at the top, and doing City a favour by beating The Toon. I am happy with that, but still looks grim.
Tuesday, 15 March 2016
Monday 14th March 2016
Sunday
And when it came down to it, I could not be arsed to go up to London until we had to; which meant that the exploration of the old Olympic Park and surrounds would have to wait for another time. Lugging a suitcase, if even a small one, did not appeal. So we planned to take the two o'clock train from Folkestone, then take the tube to the hotel, and from there meet friends in a pub on Tottenham Court Road.
The morning is taken up with the usual stuff, doubly so as it is dull and grey outside: photography, listening to the radio, drinking coffee, playing with cats and generally trying not to think of the travel in the afternoon. Jools goes out in the car to run chores and see Nan, I waste more time at home, and pack my case. I think I had better look smartish so pack a shirt and tie.
After cheese on toast and a brew for lunch, we are ready to go, so load up the car and drive over to Folkestone to wait for the train. By now the sun had broken through, but there was a keen northerly wind, making it feel much colder than the day before. We wait on the exposed platform, waiting for the train to leave the other station in town, some half a mile away. On time it appears round the slight bend in the line and glides down to us, allowing us to get on and settle in seats near the front.
Being in the afternoon, it is lightly used, so it is quiet, and I can concentrate on the usual landmarks I mark our progress towards London.
Like my good friend on the other side of the world, I had made good use of GSV in finding where the hotel was, being able to spot the entrance and then find the nearest pub that served food. There was also a Tube station on the same block as the hotel, which meant if I had planned it correctly, we would be able to drop my case in the hotel, and make it to the pub within twenty minutes of so after arriving in town.
It is just two stops along the line to Warren Street. And then up onto the street 20 yards south to where the curved awning marked the entrance to the hotel. I get the key to my room, and we both go up to the 3rd floor to check it out. THe hotel is spread round a large courtyard, or was once, now buildings and what sounded like a kitchen now filled the ground floor, but we had to walk round to the other side, along twisting corridors, down some blind ones too, until we came to room 358. It is comfortable enough, a large bed with a collection of pillows and cushions, a well appointed bathroom, free internet and a flat screen TV.
Happy with that, we go back down to the ground floor, and walk another whole 20 yards to the Northumberland Arms pub, order drinks and take a seat in the corner where we can see the rugby and see when our friends arrived. And they could see us.
Justin and Vicky arrived dead on time, just as the chef came on shift, so we were able to order food; simple pub food, not spectacular, but good enough. Jools and I have ribs, which as twelve fifty was none too bad I suppose. We catch up and swap news. In fact we met the only other time almost six years to the day when we had a spare ticket for the Brunel Tunnel tour and asked Justin if he wanted it. Snce then he has moved twice, found Vicky, got engaged, married and now have celebrated three years wed. How time flies.
Justin and Vicky have to go home after a busy weekend, and Jools has to return home, so at six we say goodbye, and I am all alone in London. Well, except for the other eight and a half million people about. I walk down Tottenham Court Road towards Soho, down where it turns into Charing Cross Road before I turn off and walk under my favourite pub, The Pillars of Hercules and into Soho proper.
Neon lights reflect off ancient cobbles, groups of bright young things dash hither and thither. I walk past swank and trendy clothes shops, art galleries and restaurants and eateries of all kinds. It is like the whole world came to London and was stirred up, which is pretty much what happened.
The number of people increase with each step, apparently. I go past 5 Dials, Cambridge Square and from there into Chinatown. And that is where the crowds really fill out. It is all too much really, and I know I have some revision to do, so begin the walk back to the hotel, but get ost in the maze of alleyways; but thanks to the fact the hotel is in the shadow of the Post Office Tower, once I see that in the distance, I set off in its general direction and soon I am back on familiar pavements.
I stop off in Greek Street at Bar Italia for an espresso and to take in the wonderful surroundings.
Dusk had now fallen, so I press on towards the hotel, snapping as I go, as I did all through my wanderings. Again on Tottenham Court Road, it is busy again, so it is a relief to make it to the lobby, then take the lift to the 3rd floor and away from the hustle and bustle of the city. In fact overlooking the courtyard is very quiet, with very little sounds of the traffic on the main road being heard.
I put the radio on, look at my shots and the evening passes away.
And when it came down to it, I could not be arsed to go up to London until we had to; which meant that the exploration of the old Olympic Park and surrounds would have to wait for another time. Lugging a suitcase, if even a small one, did not appeal. So we planned to take the two o'clock train from Folkestone, then take the tube to the hotel, and from there meet friends in a pub on Tottenham Court Road.
The morning is taken up with the usual stuff, doubly so as it is dull and grey outside: photography, listening to the radio, drinking coffee, playing with cats and generally trying not to think of the travel in the afternoon. Jools goes out in the car to run chores and see Nan, I waste more time at home, and pack my case. I think I had better look smartish so pack a shirt and tie.
After cheese on toast and a brew for lunch, we are ready to go, so load up the car and drive over to Folkestone to wait for the train. By now the sun had broken through, but there was a keen northerly wind, making it feel much colder than the day before. We wait on the exposed platform, waiting for the train to leave the other station in town, some half a mile away. On time it appears round the slight bend in the line and glides down to us, allowing us to get on and settle in seats near the front.
Being in the afternoon, it is lightly used, so it is quiet, and I can concentrate on the usual landmarks I mark our progress towards London.
Like my good friend on the other side of the world, I had made good use of GSV in finding where the hotel was, being able to spot the entrance and then find the nearest pub that served food. There was also a Tube station on the same block as the hotel, which meant if I had planned it correctly, we would be able to drop my case in the hotel, and make it to the pub within twenty minutes of so after arriving in town.
It is just two stops along the line to Warren Street. And then up onto the street 20 yards south to where the curved awning marked the entrance to the hotel. I get the key to my room, and we both go up to the 3rd floor to check it out. THe hotel is spread round a large courtyard, or was once, now buildings and what sounded like a kitchen now filled the ground floor, but we had to walk round to the other side, along twisting corridors, down some blind ones too, until we came to room 358. It is comfortable enough, a large bed with a collection of pillows and cushions, a well appointed bathroom, free internet and a flat screen TV.
Happy with that, we go back down to the ground floor, and walk another whole 20 yards to the Northumberland Arms pub, order drinks and take a seat in the corner where we can see the rugby and see when our friends arrived. And they could see us.
Justin and Vicky arrived dead on time, just as the chef came on shift, so we were able to order food; simple pub food, not spectacular, but good enough. Jools and I have ribs, which as twelve fifty was none too bad I suppose. We catch up and swap news. In fact we met the only other time almost six years to the day when we had a spare ticket for the Brunel Tunnel tour and asked Justin if he wanted it. Snce then he has moved twice, found Vicky, got engaged, married and now have celebrated three years wed. How time flies.
Justin and Vicky have to go home after a busy weekend, and Jools has to return home, so at six we say goodbye, and I am all alone in London. Well, except for the other eight and a half million people about. I walk down Tottenham Court Road towards Soho, down where it turns into Charing Cross Road before I turn off and walk under my favourite pub, The Pillars of Hercules and into Soho proper.
Neon lights reflect off ancient cobbles, groups of bright young things dash hither and thither. I walk past swank and trendy clothes shops, art galleries and restaurants and eateries of all kinds. It is like the whole world came to London and was stirred up, which is pretty much what happened.
The number of people increase with each step, apparently. I go past 5 Dials, Cambridge Square and from there into Chinatown. And that is where the crowds really fill out. It is all too much really, and I know I have some revision to do, so begin the walk back to the hotel, but get ost in the maze of alleyways; but thanks to the fact the hotel is in the shadow of the Post Office Tower, once I see that in the distance, I set off in its general direction and soon I am back on familiar pavements.
I stop off in Greek Street at Bar Italia for an espresso and to take in the wonderful surroundings.
Dusk had now fallen, so I press on towards the hotel, snapping as I go, as I did all through my wanderings. Again on Tottenham Court Road, it is busy again, so it is a relief to make it to the lobby, then take the lift to the 3rd floor and away from the hustle and bustle of the city. In fact overlooking the courtyard is very quiet, with very little sounds of the traffic on the main road being heard.
I put the radio on, look at my shots and the evening passes away.
Sunday, 13 March 2016
Sunday 13th March 2016
Saturday
We woke up at six with the sun about to rise, or that would take some imagination to see that event, as all of St Maggies was wreathed in thick fog. However, the soon to be risen sun was already having an effect, and within half an hour the houses the other side of the dip were visible, and above us, the sky if not blue, had a blue tinge.
We do the usual early morning stuff, but due to me being away again, this time from lunchtime on Sunday, there was no need for shopping, so we had coffee, breakfast, another coffee, got dressed then decided to go for a walk to the cliffs. I know that you know the route by now, and we saw nothing new or surprising, but with the light everchanging, as the mist, as it was by nine, creating soft pastel shades which would explode into vibrant colour as the gentle breeze blew the mist apart, allowing the sun to fully break through.
One thing I can add is that the ground, though looking muddy as it was two weeks back, has firmed up, and my boots ended up cleaner art the end of the walk than at the start. Only horses seemed to have the weight to break through the drier ground to the softness underneath. So, walking across the field was no longer a slalom course in trying to find firm ground, we could enjoy the views rather than look for our next safe footstep. Past the butterfly copse, now shorn of all but the buddleias, meaning the spring shoots will not have to fight through the dead growth of last year.
Still no sign of the pigs in the copse, maybe there'll be a fresh batch in a few weeks? So, after snapping that known view over the downs to Kingsdown, we walk down the lane leading to the dip, through the mud at the bottom and up the steep track on the other side. Its warm, it feels like Spring. There is new growth everywhere, birds on the wing have nesting material in their beaks, and on the cliffs we even see a Small Tortoiseshell on the wing.
Along the cycle track and then taking the right fork over the downs to the Monument. We can't see as far as the golf course, but I'm sure that the golfers are out ruining a good walk. We have a good walk up tot he cliff edge, and find the air has the tang of seasalt. Looking over the edge we see it is low tide, and with there being so little wind, the sea is just lapping onto the beach and old chalk cliff falls.
Shall we get a drink, asks Jools? Bluebirds is open, and I am sure that the frsh batches of cakes and scones are ready. Jools goes in and comes out with drinks and generous slices of coffee and walnut cake. We sit at a picnic bench out in the grounds of the building, enjoying the warming sunshine and just a hint of a cooling breeze.
We retrace our steps back down over the felds, down the dip, up the other side and then back along the path to home. Arriving back at twenty past twelve, just in time for me to make a brew and settle down to listen to City play Citeh at the Carra. After a slow start, we match the billionaires, and run out with a 0-0 draw, only the second game this season where we have no conceded a goal. But we are still deep in the clag, but with hope. Next two home games are against our nearest rivals, these will decide if we have a chance of surviving. Or not.
For the rest of the afternoon there is football on the radio, Rugby on TV and food on the table, always a good mix. England beat Wales, and now just have to win against France next week to claim the Grand Slam. And it was a good game too, with a stunning fightback from France, just failing in the final seconds to overtake England. Oh well.
It was the night of the final episodes of "Trapped", and it rounded the series off very well indeed. These past four Saturday evenings have been enjoyable, although it was hard keeping track of all the characters with the odd names, and pronounced very different from how they were spoken.
We woke up at six with the sun about to rise, or that would take some imagination to see that event, as all of St Maggies was wreathed in thick fog. However, the soon to be risen sun was already having an effect, and within half an hour the houses the other side of the dip were visible, and above us, the sky if not blue, had a blue tinge.
We do the usual early morning stuff, but due to me being away again, this time from lunchtime on Sunday, there was no need for shopping, so we had coffee, breakfast, another coffee, got dressed then decided to go for a walk to the cliffs. I know that you know the route by now, and we saw nothing new or surprising, but with the light everchanging, as the mist, as it was by nine, creating soft pastel shades which would explode into vibrant colour as the gentle breeze blew the mist apart, allowing the sun to fully break through.
One thing I can add is that the ground, though looking muddy as it was two weeks back, has firmed up, and my boots ended up cleaner art the end of the walk than at the start. Only horses seemed to have the weight to break through the drier ground to the softness underneath. So, walking across the field was no longer a slalom course in trying to find firm ground, we could enjoy the views rather than look for our next safe footstep. Past the butterfly copse, now shorn of all but the buddleias, meaning the spring shoots will not have to fight through the dead growth of last year.
Still no sign of the pigs in the copse, maybe there'll be a fresh batch in a few weeks? So, after snapping that known view over the downs to Kingsdown, we walk down the lane leading to the dip, through the mud at the bottom and up the steep track on the other side. Its warm, it feels like Spring. There is new growth everywhere, birds on the wing have nesting material in their beaks, and on the cliffs we even see a Small Tortoiseshell on the wing.
Along the cycle track and then taking the right fork over the downs to the Monument. We can't see as far as the golf course, but I'm sure that the golfers are out ruining a good walk. We have a good walk up tot he cliff edge, and find the air has the tang of seasalt. Looking over the edge we see it is low tide, and with there being so little wind, the sea is just lapping onto the beach and old chalk cliff falls.
Shall we get a drink, asks Jools? Bluebirds is open, and I am sure that the frsh batches of cakes and scones are ready. Jools goes in and comes out with drinks and generous slices of coffee and walnut cake. We sit at a picnic bench out in the grounds of the building, enjoying the warming sunshine and just a hint of a cooling breeze.We retrace our steps back down over the felds, down the dip, up the other side and then back along the path to home. Arriving back at twenty past twelve, just in time for me to make a brew and settle down to listen to City play Citeh at the Carra. After a slow start, we match the billionaires, and run out with a 0-0 draw, only the second game this season where we have no conceded a goal. But we are still deep in the clag, but with hope. Next two home games are against our nearest rivals, these will decide if we have a chance of surviving. Or not.
For the rest of the afternoon there is football on the radio, Rugby on TV and food on the table, always a good mix. England beat Wales, and now just have to win against France next week to claim the Grand Slam. And it was a good game too, with a stunning fightback from France, just failing in the final seconds to overtake England. Oh well.It was the night of the final episodes of "Trapped", and it rounded the series off very well indeed. These past four Saturday evenings have been enjoyable, although it was hard keeping track of all the characters with the odd names, and pronounced very different from how they were spoken.
Saturday, 12 March 2016
Saturday 12th March 2016
Friday
Even though I turned the radiator off early the previous evening, I am wide awake and so hot at quarter past four. I lay in bed until 5, knowing that I would not go back to sleep, I get up and finish the work I have to do before the end of the day. I fire off two reports, I check the news, Faceache and I am done.
I decide not to eat at the Zleep, as it is 80Kr and rubbish; for the same price I can get a fresh cup of coffee, a huge cup, fresh rolls and cheese or ham or nutella in the terminal. As last week I could see the queue for security, so after checking in my bag, I got to have breakfast, and some 20 minutes later there is no one waiting at security, so I cruise through, then find a table on the other side of the shop where I can catch up on any early mails.
Danes are walking to their early flights, some are supping on bottles of beer. Still too early for me.
At eight I make my way to the gate, where I see an old friend from Thanet. As I walk down the stops to the waiting area, I shout "Damo!" and Damean looks up and smiles. It has been a couple of years since we last spoke, and both of us have climbed the greasy pole. And as it turned out, he is sitting in the seat in front of me, which means I can kick the back of his seat if I get bored.
Once we are seated, the pilot announces that London City is closed due to fog, and we are going to fly to Southend. Groans can be heard, but for me this is the second time this has happened. Anyway, we will be in the right country. Buses will be laid on we are told, that not quite being the truth as it turned out Anyway, I get out the book and get down to some cold war action as the plane is made ready for flight and we taxi to the end of the runway.
Once in the air, we enter the low cloud, and when we get through that, I can see banks of fog in all directions, unbroken in all directions to the horizon.
That is the case as we approach the Essex coast, circling above Clacton, then getting lower and lower as we head onto final. All is hazy and pale, as there is a mist even here. We bounce down, then taxi to the terminal to find several other planes have also been diverted, and once in the terminal, we are at the end of a half hour queue to get through immigration where there are just two officers on duty.
Outside the airport there is no one there to advise passengers wanting to get to London. A coach had just pulled out. On the other side of the road is the railway station, I go in to check the departures, and there is a train to London in 8 minutes, so its settled, the company can buy a ticket to get me home. Damean joins me, asking where should he get off. Despite the mist, it is a warm day, there is more than a hint of blue sky above us, so, it is no really hardship to stand on the platform to wait.
We arrive at Stratford just after quarter to eleven, meaning I had just missed the train to Folkestone, so I had an hour's wait before the next one, which means time for coffee and a sausage roll and more of the book.
Once I had drunk my coffee, I go to stand on the platform as one of the new Eurostars hammers through at full speed; very impressive from just a few feet away. I take a shot as I had seen its headlights from the tunnel away to the left.
An odd guy seems to be following me, sitting next to me on the platform yet there being other benches empty, and getting on the train using the same door despite me having walked a few metres down the platform away from him. He sits in the set in front of me, I see him looking at me occasionally. Not sure what to make of it, only for him to get out at Ashford. It is a lovely day to be traveling home, even having to use the replacement bus is OK. As is the wait for a taxi at Dover. Take me home I tell the driver.
It is glorious here too, up on the down above the town, there is a gentle breeze and the sun is shining weakly through the fog. Once home, I check the garden and the ponds for signs of life and/or frogs.
Once inside the house, a tiredness overwhelms me, so once I had made a brew, I power the laptop up, check my mains then set my out of office message. And that is it. All done.
I listen to the radio, watch some TV, waiting for the evening when Jools will come home, laden with fish and chips. The sun sets in a riot of pastel shades, the cats demands feeding.
Jools comes home at just gone six, I make a coffee and we sit down to eat. We are both tired, we watch the documentary on the Renaissance, the final part, when things got really odd. Jools sleeps through most of it
Even though I turned the radiator off early the previous evening, I am wide awake and so hot at quarter past four. I lay in bed until 5, knowing that I would not go back to sleep, I get up and finish the work I have to do before the end of the day. I fire off two reports, I check the news, Faceache and I am done.
I decide not to eat at the Zleep, as it is 80Kr and rubbish; for the same price I can get a fresh cup of coffee, a huge cup, fresh rolls and cheese or ham or nutella in the terminal. As last week I could see the queue for security, so after checking in my bag, I got to have breakfast, and some 20 minutes later there is no one waiting at security, so I cruise through, then find a table on the other side of the shop where I can catch up on any early mails.
Danes are walking to their early flights, some are supping on bottles of beer. Still too early for me.
At eight I make my way to the gate, where I see an old friend from Thanet. As I walk down the stops to the waiting area, I shout "Damo!" and Damean looks up and smiles. It has been a couple of years since we last spoke, and both of us have climbed the greasy pole. And as it turned out, he is sitting in the seat in front of me, which means I can kick the back of his seat if I get bored.
Once we are seated, the pilot announces that London City is closed due to fog, and we are going to fly to Southend. Groans can be heard, but for me this is the second time this has happened. Anyway, we will be in the right country. Buses will be laid on we are told, that not quite being the truth as it turned out Anyway, I get out the book and get down to some cold war action as the plane is made ready for flight and we taxi to the end of the runway.
Once in the air, we enter the low cloud, and when we get through that, I can see banks of fog in all directions, unbroken in all directions to the horizon.That is the case as we approach the Essex coast, circling above Clacton, then getting lower and lower as we head onto final. All is hazy and pale, as there is a mist even here. We bounce down, then taxi to the terminal to find several other planes have also been diverted, and once in the terminal, we are at the end of a half hour queue to get through immigration where there are just two officers on duty.
Outside the airport there is no one there to advise passengers wanting to get to London. A coach had just pulled out. On the other side of the road is the railway station, I go in to check the departures, and there is a train to London in 8 minutes, so its settled, the company can buy a ticket to get me home. Damean joins me, asking where should he get off. Despite the mist, it is a warm day, there is more than a hint of blue sky above us, so, it is no really hardship to stand on the platform to wait.
We arrive at Stratford just after quarter to eleven, meaning I had just missed the train to Folkestone, so I had an hour's wait before the next one, which means time for coffee and a sausage roll and more of the book.Once I had drunk my coffee, I go to stand on the platform as one of the new Eurostars hammers through at full speed; very impressive from just a few feet away. I take a shot as I had seen its headlights from the tunnel away to the left.
An odd guy seems to be following me, sitting next to me on the platform yet there being other benches empty, and getting on the train using the same door despite me having walked a few metres down the platform away from him. He sits in the set in front of me, I see him looking at me occasionally. Not sure what to make of it, only for him to get out at Ashford. It is a lovely day to be traveling home, even having to use the replacement bus is OK. As is the wait for a taxi at Dover. Take me home I tell the driver.It is glorious here too, up on the down above the town, there is a gentle breeze and the sun is shining weakly through the fog. Once home, I check the garden and the ponds for signs of life and/or frogs.
Once inside the house, a tiredness overwhelms me, so once I had made a brew, I power the laptop up, check my mains then set my out of office message. And that is it. All done.
I listen to the radio, watch some TV, waiting for the evening when Jools will come home, laden with fish and chips. The sun sets in a riot of pastel shades, the cats demands feeding.
Jools comes home at just gone six, I make a coffee and we sit down to eat. We are both tired, we watch the documentary on the Renaissance, the final part, when things got really odd. Jools sleeps through most of it
Friday 11th March 2016
Thursday
The signs of spring have made it even into Denmark. Of course, it is easier to say of is a fine and sunny day, with the sun higher in the sky and not hidden by clouds. But before we get to the long sunny periods of the afternoon, I had to see the sun rise then the mist rise too. I had a 90 minute drive to where the next meeting was taking place, so I get up at half six, pack and get dressed. After checking out, time for a coffee before hitting the road.
As I leave Esbjerg, away in the east, the sun rises, almost invisible by the mist rising too, but coloured an angry red. It is an incredible sight, expecially through the network of fields and farms. But I don't stop to take a shot, mores the pity, I drive on.
After half an hour I reach the start of the dune, forming a finger of land and sealing off a lagoon to the west. It is a road I know well, I should have stopped to take some shots of the traditional turf-roofed fishermen's huts, but time is pressing, and I have only half an hour to get to the ship yard for the meeting. The fog is patching, just thin enough to drive at 80kmh, zipping past all the holiday homes, camp sites and villages. All empty and ghost-like at this time of the year, of course, but it won't be long before folks will be coming here for their holidays.
I arrive in Hvide Sande, the largest town along the dunes, and where the only entrance to the lagoon is, I drive over the bridge and arrive at the yard, some 20 minutes early. Henrik arrives 5 minutes later, I need coffee, and they did promise us breakfast. So, we walk to the boardroom where there are rolls, ham and cheese and pots of coffee. This is better.
We have the meeting, eat the food and drink the coffee.
Henrik and I have to leave to drive back to Esbjerg for another meeting. One I had organised, as I am away from work next week, traveling on Friday, it was the last day we could have it. So, I retrace my tyretracks down through the dunes, then across Jutland back to Esbjerg. The sun is high in the sky, the mist had burned off, and despite just being just above freezing, it did feel like spring. Almost.
My colleague, Brian, had bought chocolate cake to eat during the meeting, which was nice; seeing as both Henrik and I had missed lunch at the yard earlier. Once we had finished the meeting, had another slice of cake, I wrote up the minutes, sent them out, wrote a report for the meeting at the yard, sent that out. And I am nearly done for the week. JUst some more mails to send once I am in the hotel at the airport that evening.
I say goodbye to the guys in Esbjerg, and set out for the airport with the sun getting low in the west, casting warm golden light over the landscape. Traffic is light and with some radio station burbling away in the background, it is a please to be on the road on the first leg of the journey home.
I drop the car off and then go into the terminal for dinner; burger and beer again. For the third night in a row.
Thankfully, the reservation is good this week; but I think this will be the last time I stay in the Zleep, it feels downmarket, even with a new wing being built and nearly completed. There is no food, only coffee and snacks to buy. I have a few weeks before I am in DK next, so, who knows.
I search the TV channels for football, but the Spurs game, then the Liverpool v Man Utd game is on a small sports channel, 6, and I know the Zleep doesn't have that. So, I end up following the game on the BBC website whilst finishing my work for the week.
Whilst looking for my passport in the side pocket of my bag, I find my mobile phone. Meaning I hadn't forgotten it after all. I am so dumb sometimes, and better organised that I thought.
I set the alarm for six, and once the game ended, I went to bed. Phew.
The signs of spring have made it even into Denmark. Of course, it is easier to say of is a fine and sunny day, with the sun higher in the sky and not hidden by clouds. But before we get to the long sunny periods of the afternoon, I had to see the sun rise then the mist rise too. I had a 90 minute drive to where the next meeting was taking place, so I get up at half six, pack and get dressed. After checking out, time for a coffee before hitting the road.
As I leave Esbjerg, away in the east, the sun rises, almost invisible by the mist rising too, but coloured an angry red. It is an incredible sight, expecially through the network of fields and farms. But I don't stop to take a shot, mores the pity, I drive on.
After half an hour I reach the start of the dune, forming a finger of land and sealing off a lagoon to the west. It is a road I know well, I should have stopped to take some shots of the traditional turf-roofed fishermen's huts, but time is pressing, and I have only half an hour to get to the ship yard for the meeting. The fog is patching, just thin enough to drive at 80kmh, zipping past all the holiday homes, camp sites and villages. All empty and ghost-like at this time of the year, of course, but it won't be long before folks will be coming here for their holidays.
I arrive in Hvide Sande, the largest town along the dunes, and where the only entrance to the lagoon is, I drive over the bridge and arrive at the yard, some 20 minutes early. Henrik arrives 5 minutes later, I need coffee, and they did promise us breakfast. So, we walk to the boardroom where there are rolls, ham and cheese and pots of coffee. This is better.
We have the meeting, eat the food and drink the coffee.
Henrik and I have to leave to drive back to Esbjerg for another meeting. One I had organised, as I am away from work next week, traveling on Friday, it was the last day we could have it. So, I retrace my tyretracks down through the dunes, then across Jutland back to Esbjerg. The sun is high in the sky, the mist had burned off, and despite just being just above freezing, it did feel like spring. Almost.
My colleague, Brian, had bought chocolate cake to eat during the meeting, which was nice; seeing as both Henrik and I had missed lunch at the yard earlier. Once we had finished the meeting, had another slice of cake, I wrote up the minutes, sent them out, wrote a report for the meeting at the yard, sent that out. And I am nearly done for the week. JUst some more mails to send once I am in the hotel at the airport that evening.
I say goodbye to the guys in Esbjerg, and set out for the airport with the sun getting low in the west, casting warm golden light over the landscape. Traffic is light and with some radio station burbling away in the background, it is a please to be on the road on the first leg of the journey home.
I drop the car off and then go into the terminal for dinner; burger and beer again. For the third night in a row.
Thankfully, the reservation is good this week; but I think this will be the last time I stay in the Zleep, it feels downmarket, even with a new wing being built and nearly completed. There is no food, only coffee and snacks to buy. I have a few weeks before I am in DK next, so, who knows.
I search the TV channels for football, but the Spurs game, then the Liverpool v Man Utd game is on a small sports channel, 6, and I know the Zleep doesn't have that. So, I end up following the game on the BBC website whilst finishing my work for the week.
Whilst looking for my passport in the side pocket of my bag, I find my mobile phone. Meaning I hadn't forgotten it after all. I am so dumb sometimes, and better organised that I thought.
I set the alarm for six, and once the game ended, I went to bed. Phew.
Friday, 11 March 2016
Thursday 10th March 2016
Wednesday
I was in Odense because, on Wednesday, I was visiting our new factory. My employers are building the world’s most powerful turbine, and after many years of just hearing about it, I was going to see them being manufactured. Or at least a part of them.
First of all, I had to get up at the right time without an alarm clock, a function my mobile usually carries out. But with dawn getting earlier and earlier, especially here in the frozen north, then the light showing round the side of the thin curtains raised me from my slumber at half six, time for a shower, then a wander along the corridor to reception and the breakfast bar.
With lots of coffee and two bacon rolls, I was ready for the day. I check out, load the car then program the address of the factory, in the town of Munkebo, or Monkeybow as I call it for the rest of the day, imagining a chimp with a violin. Almost as funny as what I saw, but that’s another story.
A 20 minute drive through what counts as rush hour in Odense, out of town, down to the end of the motorway, then across fields to the port area of Monkeybow, there were the cranes and gantries of a huge shipyard, and that’s where we build our big babies. I am met at the gate by my colleague and friend, Henrik, who takes me to the first area to walk round. But we are joined by my boss, who thought a tour of the factory was such a spiffing idea, he joined our little party.
The day passed, big turbines means big spare parts. I am astonished by the warehousing area, stretching as it did for apparently mile after mile of shelves.
But the day came to an end, and because of cancelled meetings, I was booked into the old Scandic in Esberg for the night, a 90 minute drive away on the other side of Jutland.
I say goobye to my colleages, although I will see Henrik on the morrow, and set back to Odense, then onto the motorway heading due west into the light of the afternoon sun. Traffic was not too bad, but the radio could only find something like a pirate DJ intoroducing Abba and Neil Young tunes.
Now that our site in Esbjerg is mothballed, the hotel is fairly empty, and I get one of the free parking spaces and one of the revamped rooms on the upper floors with views west over the harbor and to the lagoon and offshore island of Fano. I put the computer on, listen to the radio and catch up on work.
Despite not having eaten since breakfast, and being hungry, I decided to watch the sun set in the misty west, turning the sky all shades or orange and red. I may have snapped it too, just in case you thought I was slipping.
I walk to the Dronning Louise, have two pints of local beer and a blue cheese burger. Its great, and just what I need. I pass the time reading the 30th anniversary edition of When Saturday Comes, something to celebrate, the sensible football magazine.
I walk back to the hotel to watch get Cheslki beaten by PSG, outplayed and beaten. Not good for the wealthy Russian owner, but still, gotta laff.
Late to bed, but up with the sparrahs in the morning for another 90 minute drive up the coast. It’s all go
I was in Odense because, on Wednesday, I was visiting our new factory. My employers are building the world’s most powerful turbine, and after many years of just hearing about it, I was going to see them being manufactured. Or at least a part of them.
First of all, I had to get up at the right time without an alarm clock, a function my mobile usually carries out. But with dawn getting earlier and earlier, especially here in the frozen north, then the light showing round the side of the thin curtains raised me from my slumber at half six, time for a shower, then a wander along the corridor to reception and the breakfast bar.
With lots of coffee and two bacon rolls, I was ready for the day. I check out, load the car then program the address of the factory, in the town of Munkebo, or Monkeybow as I call it for the rest of the day, imagining a chimp with a violin. Almost as funny as what I saw, but that’s another story.
A 20 minute drive through what counts as rush hour in Odense, out of town, down to the end of the motorway, then across fields to the port area of Monkeybow, there were the cranes and gantries of a huge shipyard, and that’s where we build our big babies. I am met at the gate by my colleague and friend, Henrik, who takes me to the first area to walk round. But we are joined by my boss, who thought a tour of the factory was such a spiffing idea, he joined our little party.
The day passed, big turbines means big spare parts. I am astonished by the warehousing area, stretching as it did for apparently mile after mile of shelves.
But the day came to an end, and because of cancelled meetings, I was booked into the old Scandic in Esberg for the night, a 90 minute drive away on the other side of Jutland.
I say goobye to my colleages, although I will see Henrik on the morrow, and set back to Odense, then onto the motorway heading due west into the light of the afternoon sun. Traffic was not too bad, but the radio could only find something like a pirate DJ intoroducing Abba and Neil Young tunes.Now that our site in Esbjerg is mothballed, the hotel is fairly empty, and I get one of the free parking spaces and one of the revamped rooms on the upper floors with views west over the harbor and to the lagoon and offshore island of Fano. I put the computer on, listen to the radio and catch up on work.
Despite not having eaten since breakfast, and being hungry, I decided to watch the sun set in the misty west, turning the sky all shades or orange and red. I may have snapped it too, just in case you thought I was slipping.
I walk to the Dronning Louise, have two pints of local beer and a blue cheese burger. Its great, and just what I need. I pass the time reading the 30th anniversary edition of When Saturday Comes, something to celebrate, the sensible football magazine.I walk back to the hotel to watch get Cheslki beaten by PSG, outplayed and beaten. Not good for the wealthy Russian owner, but still, gotta laff.
Late to bed, but up with the sparrahs in the morning for another 90 minute drive up the coast. It’s all go
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