Nasty cold has me grounded...

Since returning from Verona last week I've been laid up with a nasty cold and I can't for the life of me figure out where it came from or who might have given it to me. One of the problems with flying, of course, is that you pick things up courtesy of the air con system running through the plane. Who knows what awful diseases my fellow passengers were suffering from? Not me. So I was fine the weekend I got home. Remember I had that extra day courtesy of British Airways messing up and cancelling the flight with no sign of an apology, no compensation, nothing. Well, put it this way, on my next flight (which just so happens to be in a fortnight's time) I won't be flying with BA. No, I'll go with Finnair instead. I've flown with them before and it's a million times better. But more of that trip later perhaps, it's not on the blog radar just yet.

They're good but they won't prevent a cold...

So, Tuesday was when it all started. I got to work okay that morning and then suddenly I was hit with a streaming nose and started sneezing. It continued and intensified and very quickly I reached that awful nasal stage where there's a strong need to want to blow my nose. I haven't had an illness like this since early 2017 (if you exclude COVID in January 2022) and I know this wasn't COVID so I didn't even bother testing. I was still functioning, that's the main thing. Tuesday night I was kind of okay, we had dinner and then I started to feel weary, I kept falling asleep and starting to snore, much to the dismay of my family. But I knew there was something wrong and I nipped out to the convenience store to buy some Lemsip (my go to drug whenever I have a cold). As I said, fortunately, I've not been ill for some time, easily six years, which means I must be doing something right, hopefully that means I eat the right foods and consume enough fruit and vegetables in my diet, even if I have been living on cakes over the past few days prior to returning from Italy. Well, not living on them, but certainly swapping my ultra healthy breakfasts for cake and cappuccino, which is odd when you consider the health benefits of the Mediterranean diet (surely that doesn't include cake and filled croissants?).

I decided it was best that night to sleep the other way around, ie not next to my wife for fear of giving her my cold, but the other way around. If I'm honest with you, whenever I break from the norm in terms of sleeping arrangements I get kind of excited, like when you're a kid and you plan a midnight feast when everybody's gone to bed. I might well have mentioned my strange fantasies of sleeping in different parts of the house, although I've yet to do any strange in-house camping, like hunkering down in a sleeping bag in the conservatory, but I won't go on about this as somewhere I've written a blogpost about it and when I find it I'll put in a link. Here's the link, click here.

Tuesday night after my first Lemsip I slept well but wasn't really looking forward to going to work in the morning. There's something horrible about splashing warm water on my face when my nose is stuffed up or streaming or both (in this case it was a mixture of both). I went to bed with a toilet roll by my side so that I could blow my nose without getting out of bed if I had to, but the Lemsip did the trick and, give or take, I was out like a light. Once I'd showered (the very thought of it horrified me) I felt better but it was false, I was nowhere near better. At work I was kind of fine... well, alright, no I wasn't, I tried to be, but it was a big struggle. If I remember, I sat in Busy Beans sipping a cappuccino having already eaten my peanut butter and banana sandwiches, my Pink Lady apple and my 22 red grapes: that's what I have for lunch on more than one day in the week, it's pretty healthy and it sees me through, but because I was feeling weary and stuffed up there was no way I was going to handle the three-mile walk that I normally do at lunch times (I've been doing them for years) so instead, a cappuccino in Busy Beans sufficed (and was most welcomed). I was so stuffed up I couldn't really focus on reading either so I put aside my copy of Buzzin' by Bez and just sat there looking at my phone, reading old blogs, you name it, anything but actually concentrating on anything. And that's fine because I'd been concentrating all morning reading page proofs on a computer screen. Somehow I forced myself to keep it together on the work front, which was just as well as there were deadlines to meet and I met them.

When I reached home Wednesday night I had dinner (I can't remember what it was) and then I headed for the spare room (which had been occupied the night before, hence me sleeping at the other end of the bed). I hit the sack around 2000hrs, put my radio on and drifted off to sleep. I awoke, of course, at midnight thirty and went downstairs to make myself a Lemsip, this didn't take long and I returned to bed, which was great, it was like a secret camp and I jumped into bed and listened to BBC Radio Three until I realised I needed to switch it off in order to sleep. This I did and I guess I must have had, in total, around seven hours of sleep. I went downstairs, had breakfast, which by now I couldn't taste, and then went upstairs to face the warm shower and the sensation of splashing warm water on my face. Nothing worse when I've got a cold as I explained above.

I'm guessing that these things build up and then start to calm down again, but I wasn't sure at which stage I was at. After showering and dressing I always felt better, but I knew I wasn't and sure enough as the journey to work progressed I found myself still sneezing and blowing my nose and getting a slight headache as a result, just a dull nagging ache which added to the awfulness of my condition. But I got through it and I think I was kind of fit enough to do the three-miler on Thursday lunch time, not that doing so did me any favours. Thursday night and Friday night I hit the sack in the spare room listening to the radio, one curtain drawn back so I could see the night sky outside the window. Hunkering down, for that was what I was doing, hunkering down like a vagrant in the woods, toilet roll at my side for any midnight blowings or wipings (of my nose). 

I followed this routine and I will do it again tonight, for it's now Saturday and it's the first time I actually realised that things had improved. I was weary, there was no way I was capable of riding to Oxted, which had been my plan prior to this cold hitting the shore, so I chilled, took a drive to Hever Castle but didn't fancy paying over £60 just to enter the place. Instead, we ended up in Sevenoaks at Basil and here I realised that things were feeling good, well, not good in the sense that I was 100% better (I wasn't) but good in the sense that I could smell things again (or was starting to). I had a panini, I had a cappuccino and I had a Millionaire's Shortbread and yes, I was beginning to feel human again, but it's not over, it's just starting to subside, the tide was on it's way out but it hadn't got there yet. I reckon one more early night should do it although I don't think I'll ride to Westerham tomorrow, I need the rest.

Going to bed at 2000hrs isn't a bad idea, but there's always that 'waking up past midnight' thing that can be annoying. Just the thought of knowing I've got to try and get back to sleep again, but I've been doing it and I think I need it. Listening to the radio is relaxing as it's not as crap as television and if I can break the habit of falling asleep on the sofa and waking up at gone eleven and then having to go around locking the house up, well, that's got to be a good thing.

So here I sit, in the bedroom (not the one I'm sleeping in) looking out on the houses across the street as the light starts to fade and the street lights come on. In the distance I can see the red lights of high rise cranes, I can see the darkened silhouette of the woods and serene looking skies overhead, there's even the sound of a jet circling Heathrow or making it's final approach. There are no lights on, just the halogen glow of the computer that is sitting on a pine table by the window. Whether people can see me if they walk past I don't know and I don't care. Everything is still.

Tonight the clocks go forward one hour and then it's officially British Summer Time. The blossoms are on the trees too, well, not ours, that always blooms later, say next month, but the fact that the blossoms have arrived, along with the daffodils means only one thing: decent weather ahead and that means more riding of the bike. I won't be there tomorrow and will text Andy shortly on that, but here's to next week.

Heading back to Blighty...

I never set my alarm, but was up by 0600hrs anyway and looking forward to what the hotel offered for breakfast, although I had a pretty good idea: cake, of course, and plenty of it. I was right... and I was happy!

A cream-filled croissant, a custard-filled slice of cake, some small round pastries full of custard, it was all happening on my table. The friendly waitress offered me a cappuccino and I accepted. Later she offered me another and again, I accepted. There was fruit, fresh fruit and a fruit salad which, I think, I ordered and then didn't eat, at least I can't remember eating it, such was the excitement of the cake and the frothy coffee. I had time and so indulged myself. A yoghurt followed and an apple, which I munched away as other guests arrived, well, two – make that three – other guests: a mother and daughter combo, actually five other guests, there was a couple of slightly rotund ladies and an edgy-looking woman with a roughish face who sat alone, like I did, and looked pre-occupied. 

Through the gate and waiting for the bus to the plane...

Breakfast over I went to my room and packed, not that I hadn't done most of it already, it was just the electric toothbrush and toothpaste to put away and then I waltzed downstairs to the rather baronial hall lobby where I checked out, told them how much I loved the hotel and then ordered a cab to the airport. It arrived in minutes and soon I was on my way. The journey took all of 15 minutes and then I was faced with the chaos of the airport which seemed to be unnaturally busy. There were school kids and holidaymakers queuing up for something or other, probably a flight, one queue wound its way out of the building (I saw it when my taxi pulled up). There were soldiers with guns and sunglasses and I was asked where I was going. I said "London" and all was well, I could continue into the terminal building. What the hell was going on? I would never find out. Perhaps it was because it was Saturday, who knows? Once inside I found the BA check-in and waited for it to open, then it was a case of handing over (ahem) my case, getting my boarding pass (seat 35F, a window seat) and then heading for another queue (for security). It all went pretty smoothly and I found myself standing with a lot of red-faced people, clearly skiers and those who follow other outdoor pursuits, like climbing. I wasn't bothered. There are so many things I won't do and climbing and skiing are just two of them. I won't jump out of an aeroplane either or go diving looking for sharks.

On the plane...

Once through I sprayed myself with a Polo aftershave tester (it was free so why not?) and then ordered a ham and mozzarella roll as I knew that BA would only offer a bag of shitty pretzels and a small bottle of mineral water. Once microwaved, the roll melted and became a spludgy mess on a white plate...but that didn't stop me.

The flight was alright. Most of it was clear, but as we approached the UK the cloud thickened and I found myself thinking of the Tory party, Dominic fucking Raab in particular, and all the shite the UK liked to pile upon its people who, like cockroaches, scuttle around under the cover of cloud, moaning about their lot. I, of course, was one of them too and now I was heading home to be as much of a cockroach as everybody else. Soon, little gaps appeared in the cloud, revealing England's green and unpleasant land. The plane shuddered as it penetrated the big chunks of cumulus dotted around the skies and I started wondering why the pilot doesn't aim for the clear bits and avoid the cloud? But of course, he never does, instead he heads straight for a fucking great lump of the stuff and we all suffer as a result... or I do, nobody else seems to be bothered. Soon we were down on the ground and from then onwards, everything was fairly easy.

I found a sign saying "last toilet before passport control" and thought: that's where I'm headed! There was something intriguing about the last toilet before passport control and the walk there was interesting too because there was nobody around. I started to wonder whether, when I left the toilet, I'd be 500 years in the future or something whacky of that nature. But no, I was still in the 21st Century and I was back on track. 

Looking down on Italy...

There was nobody at passport control, my bag was on the reclaim when I got there (reclaim conveyor 8) and soon I was swanning through customs without a care in the world. I headed straight for Costa Coffee, from where I write this blogpost, as there's a train strike so I thought I'd get my bearings, have something to eat (prawn and mayo sarnie, a Millionaire's Shortbread and an English Breakfast tea) and then head for home either in a taxi or by train. 

It was a good trip overall and while I had been inwardly moaning about air travel from the minute I reached the airport, as we approached Gatwick today I asked myself whether there had really been any major hassles. The answer, of course, was no, there was nothing from the outward flight to the inward one that was really bad... apart from BA cancelling my return flight, but even that meant a few free hours in Verona, a wander around the city, a really nice dinner in Caffe Dante and, of course, a night in a decent hotel.

On Wednesday afternoon when I flew out to Italy I had the choice of queuing for a human being to check me in or use the machines; I opted eventually for the latter and it was alright. The flight out was ok, there was no turbulence, and when I reached Verona there was Maria waiting to pick me up and take me to Storo and the Polentera hotel. 

Approaching Gatwick airport.

On the return trip it was roughly the same: the taxi arrived within two minutes of being ordered, I checked in fairly successfully and yes, I queued for security but there's no way around that. It didn't take long and soon I was through and chilling (if that's the word) before the flight and, as outlined above, that was fine too. That said, however, I'm annoyed that flying is so cheap. Certainly, when I can, I'll take the train (like to Dusseldorf in June). I can't get the train to Detroit sadly and I'm guessing that a cabin on a cargo ship will be beyond my company's means and will add around 10 days to the trip. So I'll have to put up and shut up and make the most of what is thrown at me.

I'm not a great fan of flying, but I do a fair bit of it one way or the other. I don't mind it on a good day when there's no weather to deal with, but if it's cloudy and rainy (or worse) then I invariably get a little anxious. I'm  not overly keen on long flights because there's bound to be turbulence somewhere along the line and I hate it. Also, long haul flights leave me knackered and incapable and in need of recovery, so yes, more rail travel, certainly in Europe is on the cards, but when it comes to the US or the Middle East of the Far East I'll have to put up with flying.

England's green and unpleasant land, well, it's not that bad...

In search of the last toilets before passport control at Gatwick airport.

"Last toilets before Passport control!"

In Trentino*...a long way from Verona

Sometimes I have a strong impulse to make a stand, make a point, a statement, and it never does me any good. Yesterday, after loitering around the terminal building I made my way to the gate, Gate 22, which was a fair walk, but I needed it after that ill-advised almond croissant and cappuccino back at the café. Remember, I had already enjoyed breakfast, albeit at around 0700hrs and it was now mid-morning. 

Verona airport

I decided not to use the automated walkway – or conveyor – as it's just too lazy for words, and besides, it was quicker walking unless I walked whilst on the moving floor. I passed Gate 13 and realised that I would make a stand if my flight was leaving from that gate. No, I won't have it, I simply won't have it.

At Gate 22 there was a little queue and then Groups 1 to 6 were invited to board. I was Group 6 and I haven't the foggiest idea what that meant. I walked through the tunnel to the plane, getting a little angry at the HSBC ads that lined both walls as it was all part of the air travel thing, along with the big brand perfumes, the international banks and suddenly everybody was an Economist reader, everybody knew a great deal about central banks and international politics – or that was what we were being led to believe: that here, inside the claustrophobic passageway that led to the plane, it was all about 'international business' and entente cordiale and all that cosseted clap trap of the well-pressed shirt and the whiff of Paco Rabane. Those days have gone, I felt like saying out loud, "they've gone, do you hear me!" but for the sake of revealing my inner craziness and saving myself the humiliation I zipped it.

I hate the moment of stepping from the jetty on to the plane and being greeted by the cabin crew, this time with a complimentary wet wipe, which I refused. What the hell would I do with a wet wipe? I found my way to seat 28a where I found Dorothy, a 71-year-old woman celebrating her birthday with a trip to Verona to meet her children who were already there [although later I didn't see them at the airport waiting for her, she was looking for a shuttle to take here somewhere and was after somebody who could tell her where it was].

My anger built up [but remained concealed] when it was announced that we would be sitting on the tarmac, in the plane, for the next hour, something to do with our slot, our time of take-off. I seriously considered getting off the plane, making some excuse and just going home. I was on the cusp of doing it because I didn't like the look of the grey skies outside the window and was already imagining turbulence, something I hate with a vengeance. But I stayed put and struck up a conversation with Dorothy and Francesca, a 21-year-old American from Nevada who was studying in London but was visiting a friend who was studying in Verona. 

Dessert at Polentera Hotel (apple strudel with vanilla cream)

Dorothy had a sad tale to tell. Her ex-husband, an airline pilot, ran off with a younger woman and has since had four kids with her, but Dorothy was left alone in Dulwich, albeit with the support of her kids (also his, although they have disowned him). Dorothy is a diabetic, but it doesn't seem to bother her. She's also an actor of sorts and has appeared in movies and pop videos. She was in one of the Terminator movies, she told me, unless I wasn't listening properly, although I think she was an extra. Francesca was quietly spoken and clearly from money, she showed us movies of her water skiing in blue seas off the coast of somewhere extortionate and I could tell by her tanned skin that peeked through her ripped and trendy jeans – and the fact that her father was also a pilot (of his own plane) – that an easy life lay ahead. We all 'got on', which was nice, although chatting whilst confined in an airliner doesn't really constitute 'getting on', but I got the feeling that Dorothy wished we all had more time together; this was, however, the conventional brief acquaintance of travelling and while we all made noises of 'see you again one day!' we all knew, of course, that this was our first and last meeting and that we would never see each other again. Nobody exchanged email addresses, put it that way.

View from Polentera window

We were in the air for around 90 minutes, there was no turbulence but a lot of cloud until we'd cleared the English Channel and were half way across France, then the Alps appeared in all their glory and soon the plane was chuntering towards Verona. The landing was smooth and Maria was there to greet me. We drove towards Storo and the Polentera Hotel, which I would later discover is surrounded by mountains. I had dinner alone and then went back to my room to watch television, all of which was either dubbed into Italian or was Italian. I gave up and turned in, but awoke around 0300hrs and found it difficult to get back to sleep. Eventually I must have nodded off because the alarm sounded at 0630hrs and wearily I made my way to the bathroom.

Breakfasts in these small 'agriturismo' hotels – let's not forget the Villa Dragoni in Buttrio, Italy – aren't particularly healthy: cappuccino (well, I asked for one because it was offered) plus biscuits, sugary fruit juice, a bread roll filled with jam and a slice of cake – were on offer and I scoffed the lot, of course I did, 'when in Rome' and all that, although I was a long way from the Italian capital. I was close to Lake Garda apparently, or so I was told as I was driven away in a Fiat 500 from the Polentera Hotel. I'd expected to be staying a second night, but no, I'm in the Cristina Hotel in Pinzolo tonight, a wellness spa hotel designed for the skiing fraternity. Well, not yet. I will be later today and there's a pool, but I haven't brought any trunks, although I'm guessing there won't be time, there never is. This trip has an itinerary, it's a bit like a conference, but right now I'm sitting in a room 'working' as the whole thing doesn't start until lunch time, begging the question: why did they pick me up at 0820hrs? I guess that there's little to do back at the Polentera, but then there's little to do here so I'm spending my time deleting emails, answering emails, sending emails and I might put a news story online, but other than that there's little to do; I'm also sitting here in a suit, which feels a little bit stilted...and hot. I might have to take off my jacket, it's probably the most radical thing I'll do all morning.

Breakfast at the Polentera Hotel in Storo – lots of unhealthy stuff.

When work was over (it's never over when you're on a foreign press trip) there was dinner, which seemed to go on forever. It started around 1900hrs with ham and cheeses on plates outside of the restaurant, the Champagne flowed but I stuck it out with sparkling mineral having explained (as you have to) why you don't drink, it's such a bore. Dinner didn't start until around 2100hrs and it was gone 2300hrs (and many glasses of mineral water) before I returned to room 143 and another broken night, this time I awoke at 0400hrs and managed to get back to sleep before the alarm sounded at 0630hrs. 

View from room 143, Cristina Hotel

Yesterday afternoon I had heard that my Friday evening flight back to London was cancelled by those bastards, British Airways. They'd booked me on a flight home Saturday morning, which meant an afternoon of swanning around in Verona (not a bad call) but in all honesty I'd rather have been going home. Still, I've made the most of it. I found Romeo & Juliet's famous balcony (it's not up to much) and now I'm sitting in Casa Mazzanti, a caffé, drinking a cappuccino. Over here, cappuccinos are not so over-the-top as they are in the UK. Instead they're smaller in size and not so flamboyant. No chocolate on top, just the white milk, they don't stand on ceremony. I'm booked on a flight tomorrow morning at around 11am, which means I need to be at the airport at 0900hrs. I could do without that. In fact I could do without flying. I'd much rather catch the train to Paris and then jump on board the Eurostar to St Pancras, but I'd never get home so I might as well grin and bear it. I think if they cancelled again, I'd be on the train immediately (who's to say they won't cancel again?).

The hotel I'm staying in here in Verona is very pleasant. I'm in room 106 of the Albergo Mazzanti. It was down a side street so my taxi driver was unable to take me to the door and I had to walk the last few yards. It's weird isn't it? You would have thought I'd be happy to be here, swanning around Verona (and I would be had I been getting on a train tomorrow morning (or even tonight) but I'm not. Instead I have to engage with air travel again and I'm not looking forward to it. All that stands before me and the flight is a decent meal and I've yet to work out where I'll be going. I might go back and ask the hotel for their recommendations. Anyway, nothing much more to say so I'll sign off.

Lots of cake for breakfast at the Cristina (a wellness hotel!).

Poor man's Colosseum in Verona...

* I ought to point out that while I flew into Verona I was quite a way from the city for most of the time on this trip. My first stop was Storo, in the mountains, I'm told the Dolomites, and I was in the region known as Trentino, which is basically a lot of snow-topped mountains with towns dotted here and there. They surrounded me wherever I was, be it in the hotel or out on the streets, they were everywhere. It was odd, because today (Friday) we drove away from the mountainous region in a small minibus (well, it was a large cab). As we drove along with mountains on both sides and at the front and back, I marvelled at the dramatic scenery. Eventually, however, I fell asleep (probably because I'd been getting broken nights).

Room 106, Albergo Mazzanti, Verona

When I regained consciousness we were on the AI motorway and then the A4 motorway and the mountains had gone. The land was flat and I could see for miles. It was good to sleep and I enjoyed every luxurious minute of it. When we reached our destination it was time for more work and when it was over we took the same cab and found ourselves in a small café in a place called Vicenza. The weather here was lovely: blue skies and sunshine. I left my raincoat in the suitcase and we ate alfresco, just a snack, before getting back in the cab and heading for the railway station where my colleagues were boarding trains to Verona and Venice. It was time to say goodbye to everybody. I was staying with the cab all the way to Verona, which was 50km away. I had another night to go thanks to, but not courtesy of, British Airways (they're not as good as they're cracked up to be, a bit like the UK). As I said earlier (yes, this post has kind come full circle) I am in Verona now. I'm sitting in the Casa Mazzanti caffé having a cappuccino and writing this blogpost, which I have now finished. 

Well, almost finished. I feel I must say something about the hotel, the Albergo Mazzanti, as it's absolutely the perfect hotel for anybody looking to spend the weekend in Verona. For a start there's only 16 rooms, so it's small and perfected formed, which is what I like. Second, it's bang in the centre of the city, a few paces away from a huge square lined with restaurants and cafés and only a short walk from the aforementioned Romeo & Juliet balcony and what I referred to above as the poor man's colosseum. I'm sure it's got a proper name, but that's what it looks like. Anyway, the hotel is amazing. As I write this, it's Saturday morning and I really must be making tracks for the airport and a flight back to Gatwick. However, just to say the rooms are great (see photo) and the breakfasts are good too. More cake, I hasten to add, but that appears to the Italian way and I'm certainly not complaining.

View from room 106...

Yesterday I wandered about a little, mainly in search of the Romeo & Juliet balcony, but then a little further, up to the "colosseum" and beyond and then back to the hotel for dinner, although not in the hotel but in the nearby Caffé Dante, which has struck a deal with the hotel (you'll get 10% discount off the price of a meal there). And let me say that Caffé Dante was very good indeed. I had two courses and it was around 54 Euros, not bad considering the quality of the food and service.

I better get out of here, got a flight to catch. All I need to buy is a fridge magnet to add to my collection. Last night I discovered that Verona has a Hard Rock Café, but as I didn't fancy dining there I couldn't very well pick up one of their magnets. The problem is that buying one from the many kiosks dotted around the city is only possible if you have cash. I don't, just a credit card, so I'm without one at present. My only hope is that there will be some at the airport as I don't really want to draw cash just to buy a fridge magnet. That said, it would be a shame to leave Verona without one.

En route to Verona...

 I wanted to take the train. Train travel is by far the very best there is, but sadly it's very expensive and, oddly – you would have thought it might be the other way around – air travel is ridiculously cheap. We all know why this is: air travel is heavily subsidized and, as a result, it's not the haven of the glamour puss any more, no longer the place you'll find supermodels and film stars. Or rather it is, but they all fly in First Class and hide away from the plebs in the lounges. That said, I once bumped in to Jimmy Somerville, I spotted a stand-up comedian whose name I can't remember and I think that's about the level of my airport celeb spotting.

The train to Verona is possible, but it would have meant arriving at gone midnight and that simply wouldn't do. Why? Because I was being picked up, by 'Maria' and driven to my hotel, which is located in a place called Storo, which I'm guessing is a fair way from Verona. I won't be seeing the famous Romeo and Juliet balcony on this trip, unless I can fit it in on the return journey, which is not out of the question. From now on, however, if I can take the train, I will. I'm going to Dusseldorf in June and the plan is to train it all the way as it's only around three hours from Brussels.

The Grain Store café and bar, Wednesday 15 March 2023, noon.

So, the airport. I took the train to Gatwick, mainly because I hate cars almost as much as I hate planes and I hate taxis just a little bit more. First, they're a rip-off, second, the driver is invariably racist and won't stop talking in a derogatory manner about the Mayor of London and lastly, I just can't be bothered with cabs when I can walk to the railway station and just jump on a train: no hassle, no chat, no nothing other than looking out of the window, which is what I did until I reached Gatwick and then, of course, the shit begins in earnest. Fortunately, my British Airways flight was leaving from the South Terminal so I didn't need to jump on the monorail and head for the North Terminal, that's a relief. But then I did have to endure the capitalist scumbags, yes British Airways, but hey, any airline can be allocated the same description for the simple reason that they do all they can to make more money for themselves and they don't care if that means inconveniencing the customer – me!

They've now got auto bag drop systems. No longer the human being who checks your passport, hands you your boarding pass and takes your bag. Now it's a queue for a machine, which somehow defeats the purpose. I've always been of the opinion that if a machine is involved it's allieviating something, ie queues, but not any more; these days people queue for a machine, but guess what? The queue for the human beings is even longer. I couldn't stomach it. I was standing there in the zig zag of travellers thinking 'this is going to take ages' and after trying to stick it out twice I eventually relented, walked to the auto check-in kiosk, took my boarding pass from the machine (I took the liberty of booking myself a window seat (28a) and then queued in the smaller queue for the machines. I nearly sent my bag to Tampa, Florida in the process. The guy before me pressed something, I'm not sure, but when I reached the machine it was still thinking everybody was going to Tampa. When my tag was printed it clearly said 'Tampa' so I moved to another machine and it kind of worked, although the conveyor jammed and I had to call an assistant and then it was alright. But my problems weren't over – better make that 'hassles'. It's just a hassle going through security, putting the laptop in a separate tray and so forth, but, I suppose, in all honesty, it wasn't too bad and once I was through with it, all I had left to deal with was the society of the spectacle. I had to run the gauntlet of perfumes and alcohol, watches and God knows what else. I had no intention of buying anything but I did squirt myself with a liberal amount of Davidoff Cool Water, just to make myself smell good. I always smell good when I'm on a plane, thanks to the testers.

I'm now sitting in the Grain Store café bar sipping a cappuccino and nibbling (to my own disappointment) an almond croissant. This, I know, has to stop. Yesterday it was my colleague's birthday and she brought in a caterpillar cake. I would have just had one slice, but I found myself irritated by somebody else in the office who, it seemed, was intent on playing 'the old man'. I hate that. When people play the old man, the pensioner or whatever when they're not that old and should really be just getting on with life without whingeing. There are loads of 'old people' words that I try to avoid: Lumbago, Sciatica, Secateurs and, of course, the Daily Mail. I don't want to hear people moaning about their fucking gout or how their knees are playing up, this is the stuff of old people and I won't have it. I know people get these ailments, of course they do, but whingeing about them in an old person kind of way just makes me annoyed. Why, I ask myself, do they wish to be considered old before their time. My mum IS old, she's 93, she can moan, but not one of my work colleagues. But it's not just him. I've heard celebs (who are not old) moaning (in a jokey manner) about ear hair, nose hair and how things just ain't working they way they used to. Fine! Moan! But moan on your own, in a locked room, a soundproof room in the middle of the desert because I don't want to hear it, do you understand me? I don't want to hear it.

I arrived at Gatwick "well early" so it looks as if I'm going to get the full two-hour slob-out. The last thing I want to do is buy any food or drink in the flight so I'm going to order something else before I vacate my seat at the table of this rather nice little café. But hold the bus! This place ain't cheap. The 'mains & grills' range in price from £14.75 for vegetarian chilli to £21 for grilled salmon, there are desserts (if I'm to make out that my almond croissant was the main course) but do I really want to scoff key lime pie, pecan pie or even a pavlova. There are burgers, salads, pizzas and 'small plates' but the latter are piss poor and I can't very well order another pastry or another cappuccino, that would be a little piggish. Perhaps another coffee? But cappuccino is roughly 135 calories a go, making 270 in total. Do I want that? I could order tea, that's zero calories if served black and not much more with a smidgen of milk. But do I really want more or am I just in need of comfort. The most legitimate would be the Full English breakfast, but really? Imagine when it arrives and I stare at the bacon, sausage, egg and hash browns, not forgetting the baked beans, the mushrooms and the sourdough toast. Do I really want it or am I simply being a huge pig, a rare breed lump of pork who needs to eat no more and just make do with the still mineral water that stands before me? No, I can't eat more, it's wrong on so many levels.

There's over an hour before my flight departs Gatwick and I know that outside of the café is nothing but the society of the spectacle in the shape of rubbish clothes and electronic goods, books I don't need to read right now and stuff nobody really needs. They're capitalizing on people's boredom, that's what it is and there's no way I'm going to play ball. What I could do is go to Starbuck's and order a tea and simply sit there until it's time to make my way to the gate, now that's got to be the plan. I can continue reading Buzzin' by Bez, my latest book. Yes, I finished The Bear Comes Home by Rafi Zabor, which turned out to be reasonably good in the end. So, listen, I'm going to sign off.