We were leaving the Promised Land. Even though we are ‘chosen people’, in this instance we decided to choose to be somewhere else. Not really out of choice, I’d have stayed on that beach or in the hummus bar, but holidays end, blah, blah, blah, don’t expect sympathy or compassion from YOU.

We left our dear friends in Netanya, filled up the car, cos otherwise the rental companies charge you even more per litre than the Shell garage in Highgate, as a punishment. And that went well. Possibly the last thing of the day which ‘went well’ for a good while. As you’ll see.

Because I know the way to the airport in Tel Aviv. I’ve driven it, probably, 25 times. I’ll tell you the way. Ready? You go down the 2 road, over the bridge to the 5 and follow the little airplane emojis all the way to Ben Gurion International. They’re everywhere you need them to be, and more. Right or left??? Just follow the airplane. Goddit.

They’ve really improved the roads too. Widened them, resurfaced them, brilliant. Smooth, even, fabulously freewayish in every way. Except… they didn’t get round to replacing all the signposts. The ones with the little airplanes on them. So we very soon found ourselves… fucking lost. Totally. Middle’a fucking nowhere. With not an airplane pic in sight. Never mind, turn on Waze. But the phones (both of them) wouldn’t pick up the airwaves. No idea why. Turned on ‘data’, had ‘4G’, but no function. Total fuckage. And the clock’s ticking.

Stopped the only person on any street and found an angel. Who looked up the way on her phone which we photographed to use. I’d buy her dinner, lunch and breakfast if I knew who she was or where the hell we found her. And thus we arrived at the airport. Not toooo late, but on the anxious side of mild panic, just before you scream.

Security, fine, check-in, fine, more security (this was Israel), pretty good and then…

I beeped the scanner. Ok, off with the belt, out with the loose change, I beeped it again. Ah, possibly the metal shoulder? We need to do a check. But only a man can do it. Even though the gorgeous babe in the uniform would definitely have been my first choice. And second. No, wait for a man. I tried arguing diversity, but she remained firm. But, like beautifully firm and…

Eventually I got the personal treatment (14 seconds) by some humourless automaton who confirmed that Osama Bin Laden I wasn’t, but after waiting 10 minutes.

Then just a minor hiccup because the automatic passport reader couldn’t believe my photo was so beautiful so it rejected it and made me go to see a non-automatic person.

Bottom line: we’re home. So what’s stressful in that?

Happy Thursday

A xxxx