So we have a 9.45 flight from Gatwick. No problem. Be there 7.45… allow hour and a half… ok, leave at 6, up at (fucking!!!!) 5. No problem. What could possibly go wrong? All planned, all packed (Mrs C insisted that we pack on Sunday, for some unaccountable reason other than by Wednesday night I’ve completely forgotten what I’ve packed and what I haven’t, but there ya go, I really don’t argue… much), alarm set. For the third time; no problem.

As in: what could possibly go wrong?

I went wrong. That’s what fucking went wrong. Traffic light, no hold-ups, all perfectly swimmingly beyond swimmingly, which lulled me into a false sense of security and I missed the Gatwick turn-off.

I’ll spare you the precise details of the ensuing 20 minutes of hair-pulling, teeth-clenching, ulcer-growing frustration looking for ‘somewhere to turn round on the M25’ but I was, for a little while, in a dark place. A very dark place. And I don’t mean South Croydon. Other than geographically.

Good thing we were early. Or had been. The accident they announced on the radio inside the perimeter road at Gatwick Airport, wasn’t as bad as originally thought, so that hold-up was minor.

So now I’m on the plane. And its amazing. 5 miles up in the air and drinking whisky. Well, jesus, its nearly 11 in the morning for gawd sake, I’m allowed.

And pondering lunch. According to the menu, the starter is: “fresh locally produced appetiser”. Which is a shame because I really want something produced in Blackburn, freeze-dried last May, and bumped down the M1 on the back of rickety old truck ready to be zapped back to some kind of ‘life’ by radioactive levels of microwaves in the galley here at 30,000 feet. You can’t always get what you want. Mel says the dessert tastes like synthetic, lemon-flavoured wall filler. But she says it almost like that’s a bad thing. I have one rule on a plane: if they put it in front of you; eat it. Avoids boredom.

So have a lovely Christmas Eve. Where’s the wifi on this plane when ya need it.

A xxxx