Lucy and the Fanny Handover Event

Mini-Break

Why was there a break in the posts (well the postman went away - ed) but then again there wasn’t really (or was there, has the post deficit been rectified by post facto posts with dates altered to earlier dates, we should be told - legal ed)

But I (by that I mean we , Bridget went too - ed) had a break, a mini-break (like a KitKat but much much nicer and much much hotter, a KitKat would have melted into a pool of goop if it had come with us - vacation ed)

In fact we've been having a small amount of holiday (assuming a week is a small amount - hmm ed) overseas. In Italy. In Tuscany, In a medieval hill town (well it is much older than that, as first established in 3rd Century BC approximately - history ed) called San Gimignano

Hot in Italy

It was hot, too damn hot, so hot I had to spend a lot of time in the shade drinking cold fizzy alcohol with nibbly things on the side.

In Italy they don't appear to just let you drink alcohol by itself - they insist on giving you free nibbly things (not really free, part of the cost of the drink I would suppose - economics ed), very civilized, but they have been civilized in Italy for thousands of years, whereas we in the UK are still in the, “Beer with a side-order of aggro, please”, stage (you really should read "Watching the English” by Kate Fox - literary ed).

The cold fizzy alcohol came in two distinct styles, beer (small, medium or large) and a sparkling white wine called Franciacorta, definitely the find of the year so far (only just beats the £20 note I found down the back of the sofa, not the home sofa, but the sofa in the wine bar in Reading - so Reading is at least good for one thing - ed).

Naturally there were other forms of alcohol on sale and even available - but I don’t want to talk about them right now.

Tackling a Large Italian Beer

The large beer was in the form of a litre of liquid. It came in a large glass mug. Possibly the least attractive thing I saw in Italy. It was an ugly mug (even I sniggered at that one when I read it back - ed)

It looked at me long and hard and frothed and foamed.

I, being hot and thirsty, looked at it for a very short time indeed (just how small do seconds go - femtoseconds perhaps - physics ed), picked it up, and quaffed. Beer did indeed come out of the corners of my mouth, it cooled my ears down.

It tasted good.

The beer (lager - Camra ed) gurgled all the way down to my stomach, there was a hiss when it hit my oh so hot stomach lining, it felt good.

I look at the ugly mug again and then drank some more.

It still tasted good.

I gave it a short, hard stare and then drank some more.

The beer caved in and stopped frothing after having deposited the foam onto my luxurious moustache (you have a moustache, since when and it what way luxurious? - ed)

I wiped the beer froth away with the nearest hand to be found, in this case it was Bridget’s hand (she is a very helpful lady to have around, I did get an ear flick for this rudeness - but it saved me getting beer froth all over my perfectly formed and pristine hands - ed).

For some reason that I have yet to determine, the Italian beer tasted very good indeed, whether in a bottle or on tap, whereas it is not to my liking when I drink it here (in the UK, cold and dampness might be something to do with it - meteorological ed.).

I reckon the Italians export the rubbish and keep the good stuff for themselves, or perhaps it is just right for when it is really, really hot (did I mention it was HOT - around 30-35 C and it didn't rain - not a drop, not a hint of a drop,  at one point I starting humming, "Here comes the rain again", in the hope of bringing some cooling rain - surprisingly it didn't work, but then I am arrhythmic rather than eurythmic! - ed).

Trip WIth No Hitch?

The trip went without a hitch, which for me was quite amazing.

When I say without a hitch, obviously I mean without a major disaster....

OK, there was one almost (but not quite so disastrous that I couldn't fix it - ed)

There is a story here but I am not sure I can do it justice.

Maybe I can try?

"Go on go on go on", I hear you saying (Imagination on overload  - ed), OK, but I am still supposed to be doing Anguish in Aberdeen III and so forth - but they can wait (The muse is strong in this one - ed).

London City Airport

When looking for flights to Florence, Italy (as opposed to Florence of The Magic Roundabout fame, and for all you geographically challenged readers - ed), we discovered that the only way to get an early morning flight, as we were not keen on a flight that arrived early evening, was to fly from London City Airport (code name LCY - or Lucy as we now like to call her - ed)

This naturally added to the excitement …

(it really doesn’t take much to get me excited, “Ooh, ooh, ooh, I can see an interesting cloud out of the train window”, see what I mean, sigh - ed)

… as neither of us ...

(the other being Bridget, the beast from hell was not coming with us, he was going to be chained to the bed at home and fed bread and water for the week [No animals were hurt during the writing of this post or during the taking of the holiday - RSPCA ed] - well in my mind at least - ed)

...had flown from there before (aha so that’s what made it exciting - ed)

The first hitch (oh so minor on the Davey DIsaster Scale (™) - ed) was that the flight was at 07:10 on a Saturday morning …

(all times are approximate, and like the contents of my posts are prone to both exaggeration and inflation for comedic effect - ed)

...which was in itself fine, but meant that we could not get there from Alton in time using the train.

For those of you with an interest of all things, “train”; first train from Alton on a Saturday morning is 06:14, and it arrives in Waterloo at 07:27, so that was not going to be of any use to allow us to catch a 07:10 flight.

There was the option of taking the last train into London the evening before and simply hanging around at Lucy until the time of the flight the next morning. But making the choice to hang around an airport for hours (not knowing how big it was, or were there comfortable seats, or was there entertainment or food or water or shelter or heat or light - worrisome ed) before a flight is not something you want to do unless you are simply hoping for some compensation….

So, with as much guile as I could muster…

(and boy can I muster guile, I have a small pouch in my rucksack where when I have a surfeit of guile I put a pinch or two in it, to save for later, when I am going through a guileless spell - what are you on ed)

...and with the cunning use of the Interweb I tracked down a hotel that was near to Lucy, it was a Travelodge.

I hesitated on booking it; after all it was a Travelodge! Was a Travelodge, “Good Enough”, for Bridget. After a few moments thought, I booked it. It would have to be, “Good Enough”. I could make up something about it being the closest (obviously not simply the cheapest as that would not do - ed) to Lucy if Bridget asked (good thing Bridget doesn’t read the blog - d’oh ed)

Overnight at the Travelodge and the DLR experience

We left home late afternoon on the Friday before the flight, to head up to London (which I keep mistyping as Londong - Lon(g) Dong - some sort of 1970’s porn star one might think - ed) for our short night’s stay at the Travelodge; as we would need to be leaving at around 5:30 am to get through the inevitable delays that airports deliberately introduce to make you spend more money there …

(This is true, I have investigated this, and everything that airports do is to extract as much money from you as possible during your so-called “stay”.

The newish word “staycation” was introduced not to mean staying in the UK for a holiday, but actually to cover those thousands of holidaymakers trapped in airports; these airports “airside” retail units, like a plague of vampires, impel you to spend spend spend or maybe simply suck the money out you and leave your shrivelled husk to be swept up and disposed of by autonomous floor cleaning robots - conspiracy ed)

We drove up to Alton station, as we had to leave the car somewhere for a week and this is not possible without buying a season ticket for the local Bank car park, which we did not want to do.

I am never quite sure why Banks need car parks, but maybe it is named Bank car park as the river runs through (surely a film ref there - film ed) the car park - and so maybe the Bank in question is the river bank?

We parked the car under a tree at the station (nobody wants a sunburned car on return from holiday - ed), which on reflection was probably not a good idea; given the amount of guano that was covering it on our return. Reckon it was the only tree in Alton station with an Elephant Bird roosting in it.

The flaw, in this obviously well researched car parking plan (not actually researched at all, we just thought you would be able to buy a parking ticket for more than a week - oops ed) was a bitter blow; you cannot not buy a ticket for more than a week. So all we could do was buy one from now (the Friday - ed) until the next Thursday. So we would have to remember buy one for the following Friday from Italy on the Thursday.

How were we to remember? I had no handkerchief to tie a knot in? I pulled out a packet of tissues ...

(Which I always have to close to hand because my nose, like the rest of me, is very sensitive and during the so called British Summer, is much in use as a Hayfever Sneeze Capturing Device (™),

I long for the day when I can get a one off drug [even if it is injected through a very long needle] to stop this for the entire Summer; it might make Summer’s something to look forward to again, rather than something to fear, causing me to hide in darkened rooms, fomenting dissent, insurrection and plotting the downfall of Western Civilization; but as Matthew Paris wrote in The Times the other month, voting Brexit [though I do not recall that as an option on the ballot paper] was going to cause the Fall of the West (™) so my plotting would come to nothing.

Methinks Mr. Parris might have been getting carried away, as the sun did rise the day after The Vote (™), and has continued to rise, the planet has continued to turn. Perhaps all the apocalyptic statements were a trifle overblown on both sides? - ed)

(On a further slight aside, it appears that the only thing that had not been predicted by The Remainers With Amazing Future Forecasting Abilities (™) was an alien invasion. As a consequence my side bet for an alien invasion on the 24th June 2016 was definitely worth a punt. Sadly, no aliens arrived, but if they had arrived I would now be worth a small fortune, sadly I am not and so the working for a living and the blogging for pleasure go on uninterrupted - sigh ed)

… pulled the tissue packets plastic resealable tab and it came off in my hands.

Tissue Aside

The tissue packet remained fully closed.

I swear I saw it smile at me, taunting me with my inability to open a simple packet of tissues. But be warned, this was no simple packet of tissues, it was trained with a Degree in Irritation and a PhD in Annoyance, this was the kind of challenge that I rise to.

Taking the sticky tab to one side, I whispered to it, “Simply follow my instructions to the letter, and you will be back doing your real job in moments”; I whispered some more quiet words in an urgent fashion (but I shan’t tell you, dear reader, what I whispered, as the words could escape into the wild and every educated eavesdropping packet of tissues would soon know how to deal with my oh so subtle response to such a minor annoyance - just what are you on ed )

(As another minor aside, I have been in two long meetings today, and my sense of the ridiculous is roaming free and wild in the vast reaches of my labyrinthine mind - definitely totally lost it ed)

WIthin moments the tissue packet was open, in fact too open, the contents spilled out and fell to the floor with tiny high pitched voices crying, “Free at last”,.

As the tissues hit the ground they scuttled away, ensconcing themselves under every potential hidey hole that they could find. After a few moments thought, I took to singing the strangely melodious old folk song, “The Call of the Lonesome Tissue”, however, even with the use of this age old tissue homing tune, none of them returned.

I gave up. Some days when the tissues are not with you, you just have to let them go out into the world, to live their lives as free wild tissues, no longer constrained to be filled with nasal outpourings and carelessly discarded into the nearest waste bin, but with a whole world to explore (just which level of sanity are you currently on? - ed)

However, I still had the sticky tab, so I was still up in this game. The sticky tab was placed on my forehead,

Bridget looked at me worriedly,

“Quick take a photo of me!”, I said,

“Let this moment, with the sticky tab on my forehead, be the knot that reminds us to renew the car parking ticket when we are in Italy next Thursday”.

Bridget shook her head from side to side in a very familiar and resigned way, but was gracious enough to take a photo of me.

“Why don’t you simply put a reminder in your phone?”, she enquired, in that, oh so reasonable, voice of hers.

I had a moment’s thought.

“D’Oh”, I exclaimed, “Wish I would have thought of that, then I wouldn’t have lost a whole packet of tissues!”

At that moment, my nose tickled, the sneeze that has been lurking in the dark depths of my nose (where the long nasal hairs roam - ed) came forth, explosive and wet.

My hand moved like lightning (very very frightening, Galileo - music reference ed) to catch it.

The result, one very yucky handful of snot and what was worse no tissues to wipe it up. I was in the worst possible scenario, a No Tissue Situation (™).

What was I to do. Simply dear reader, wipe it on my jeans, there was nothing else I could do.

As I did this I sighed, the long sigh of, “This day isn’t going quite as I had planned it” and Bridget piped up with, “I have some tissues. You only had to ask!”.

“D’Oh”, I exclaimed.

“D’Oh 2 - 0 David”, I thought. It definitely was that kind of day.  

Remember Lucy?

Now, I don’t know about you, but to get to Lucy (London City Airport - do keep up ed) from Waterloo the most direct way is to use the Jubilee line …

(though I did not think that the people were jubilant enough to be using the line. I think that the users of the Tube should become like the name of the Tube they use the most. You know, like people and their dogs looking the same? - whacko ideas ed)

… to Canning Town followed by the DLR to London City Airport.

Now I got quite excited by this, as I had never been on the DLR before, not ever, totally never.

As you can imagine I was on tenterhooks. I mean, at Canning station they have two levels  - a split level tube station, but not as in central London hidden beneath tunnels, but in plain view (the author may be misremembering this due to the over excitement - ed)

The DLR

With no problems, on the less than jubilant Jubilee Line (given the number of Jubilees the Queen has had, I have now forgotten which Jubilee it was named after… it was the one in 1977, which when Wikipedia’ed appears to be named after the Silver Jubilee of that year -ed) arrived at Canning Town.

I saw no Cannery Factories, so I guess that all those factories have been closed down at some point.

I had butterflies in my stomach when the DLR train arrived Nobody was driving it. I know, I know, this had always been the case with it, but I was a DLR Virgin (™), so I wanted my first time to be the best, well at least better than the other loss of VIrginity, this time at least I was sober.

The train left, on what I thought was a short journey through the East end docks, where there are lots of imaginatively named places, mostly with the word, “Dock” in them.

What was different for me (apart from no longer being a DLR Virgin - ed) was that the DLR on its raised track gave me and the rest of its passengers a good view...

(Probably most of them ignoring it, but I was in an intense state of excitement, well you don’t lose your virginity many times in your lifetime, do you? - ed) …

of the surrounding area. It appeared that we were flying through London at 2nd Floor height. (I did mention that it doesn’t take much to get me excited! - ed)

When we reached the DLR station, fortuitously named, “London City Airport”, we knew it was time to leave the train. I bade it a fond farewell. I hadn’t lost my heart to a starship trooper, but I certainly wanted to remember where I had lost my second virginity!

We had spotted the “acceptable” Travelodge out of the window as we whizzed past it. It was a short, but interesting walk back to the hotel. The paved route didn’t seem to cater very well for pedestrians as I walked into a few low hanging branches on the way (Damn things leap out at you unexpectedly by just staying very still so that your eyes fail to see them until they hit you in the face - ed).

Next time (assuming there is a next time with Lucy, you might have blotted your copy book sonny - ed) I will bring either a machete or a saw to clear the way, though one might argue it would be in the local council’s and Lucy’s interest to aid the airports accessibility on foot. Not sure I would get either through security at the airport, so my tree pruning tools might have to be abandoned after a single use.

Wales playing football on TV

After checking in, and being aided by a very friendly receptionist, we dropped our gear off in the 3rd floor room and came down for dinner. Luckily formal attire was not required and we settled down with a single cold lager (and the rest - ed) before eating a satisfactory meal.

There were lots of TV’s distributed about the “Lounge/Dining Room” and Wales vs Belgium was on the TV. If you recall the European Championships finals were on, and somehow Wales had got into the quarter finals.

I was in two minds on whether I wanted them to win (after all they are a part of the United Kingdom - ed) but I have struggled over the decades to forgive the Welsh for thrashing England at Rugby Union throughout the 1970’s. Some of us have long memories. Mine is longer than most, given that the average age of the world’s population is around 25, so my memory is longer than multiple billions of people.

But, I was going on holiday, so I was minded to be generous and support the Welsh. However, within moments of this momentous decision they went 1-0 down. Damn, David luck strikes again!

However, unlike the England team, the Welsh team seemed to have a good team spirit and strong self-belief, sadly lacking in England’s appalling exit to Iceland, and turned the game around and went on to win by a cotton-picking mile. So well done to them.

Though just to sound a note of very minor criticism, “Just what is Gareth Bale doing with his hair?”, it certainly beats me.

Arriving at Lucy at Daft O’Clock Saturday Morning

Like many non-shift workers I didn’t believe that there was a 4:45am on a Saturday morning. I knew there was a Saturday night 4:45am - as I have on occasion (and not for quite a few decades) stayed up “partying” through the night.

Dear readers, don’t look too aghast, this has not happened in recent times; these days I like to be tucked up in bed by 10pm otherwise the grumpiness chimp pops out of my head, takes over and makes me into MR GRUMPY (right Bridget - ed).

Those partying through the night days were before there were any alphabetically named pills (E - ed) were available to help you keep going on and on (Ariston - ed), so life was tough back in the old days and I was much younger (much, much, much younger - ed).

So at God Awful O’Clock Saturday morning we were up, showered (I didn’t dare shave, even with a so-called safety razor - yes safe as they are blunt. It was the weekend, I don’t always shave at the weekend, and not at all if it is too early in the morning to even think - ed) and ready to head off to see Lucy.

From inside the Travelodge I witnessed, and naturally photographed, a magnificent sunrise - the photo reminded me of the cover of The Eagles - Hotel California LP or Album (a copy of this photo is available, as ever, on request to the author - ed)

(For all you hipsters out there, an LP is an analogue 12” vinyl circular device used to store the actual sounds from a “pop” band or other music “combo”; it was the kind of thing we used to use to listen to music before “Streaming” was invented. Though on my last trip to Sainsbury’s there appears to be some kind of retro revival of them, as they are on sale again  - you could knock me down with a feather, clever trevor, ed)

The first Album I ever bought was The Shadows Greatest Hits, a heavy metal band from the mists of time (are you sure they were heavy metal - music ed).

It may still be up in the Attic with the 110 pieces of vinyl I still cherish and have been unable to discard (I am not a hoarder, but those albums seem to describe my life from around ages 13 to about 25  - after that the 1980’s were invented and with it Thatcherism. They not only destroyed manufacturing jobs but LP’s too, and with the introduction of CDs we all went DIgital, DIgital with Olivia Neutron Bomb.

Lucy in the Sky WIth DIamonds

The walk, with bags trailing behind us like a couple of recalcitrant children, back to London City Airport was uneventful. No rain but simply glorious early morning sunshine with a lovely fresh, metallic and jet fuel tang to the air.

Lucy turned out to be quite small. Possibly, if not probably the smallest airport I have ever been at, well apart from Southampton, but definitely much smaller than Bristol.

I love regional airports. But then again, as many of you have probably realised, I am a little odd.

We were so early at the airport that most of it was still shut, certainly security was not open.

We wandered about to get the feel of the place (it didn’t take long, as I mentioned if you had been paying attention, it was small - ed) and as soon as we could check-in our luggage we did.

As we went through security, after it had finally opened, I was asked to remove my belt, I went to do that, only to discover I had no belt,

I had forgotten it (Another D’Oh moment in the life of me - ed).

The security guard was most insistent with the request, “Please take off your belt Sir”, that I had to pull my shirt up over my head to show them that there was indeed no belt, at which point they seemed to be satisfied, or it might have been the sight of a large white belly that satiated their curiosity, who can tell.

No worries I thought, I can buy a new belt in Italy, as it is famed for leather goods amongst many many other things (food, wine, architecture, history, sunshine, mountains, lakes, paintings, sculpture, err, did I mention the food and the wine - ed)

Surprisingly I had only taken one pair of shorts with me, as we were only going to be there a few days, so one should be sufficient.

But, and there was a big but(t) ...

(obviously not mine, as I have, “Buns of Steel”, or so I have been reliably informed, walking up all of the 8 floors of stairs at work, twice a day, 5 times a week, climbing two steps at a time has finally had some effect on my body, if not my mind!

Had I told you that I have lost around 2st in weight over the last year? Well I have, and I feel better for it too. Hence the need for belts, some of my trousers are falling off my waist.

When I heard the, “buns of steel”, comment I thought someone was making a disparaging remark about my famed baking skills. Dwarf battle breadmakers - you got nothing on my culinary abilities - ed)

… was that the only pair that I had bought were so loose on me that they would not stay up. Possibly I was in need of a new pair of shorts as well, but then we were heading to Italy where they sell not only very good leather belts, but some good stylish clothing as well (not that I would buy any, as if I am anything, it is not a clothes horse, no, no, not me, branded goods to me mean the marks that are put on cows with hot irons in the midwest USA. - ed)

Shoe Aside

For once I was not asked to take my shoes off, which is normally a massive chore, due to me wearing stomping great boots most of the time; but not this time, I had some lightweight Summer shoes within which no bomb could possibly reside.

I had bought two pairs (one a pair of blue suede loafers and a new pair of sandals which was a long, long, long overdue sandal replacement - ed) at the same time at the Clarks in Alton, I had almost bought 3 pairs of shoes on that strange Saturday morning, but they didn’t have the colour or the right size for the third pair.

I did ask the sales assistant whether she had ever sold 3 pairs of shoes to a man in one go.

“No, sir”, was the response, “Well you blew your chance for a new sales record with me!”, I retorted..

I loathe going into shoe shops, for a start they are full of shoes and secondly full of sales assistants that want to sell you shoes and keep you pinned in there without your shoes on whilst they traipse backwards and forwards to the, “store room” , or the more insidious, “outback”...

(which I thought was in Australia, but it appears to be in a lot of retail outlets these days - ed)  

...in a vain attempt at finding the right size, make, and colour of shoe that you have requested…

Perhaps, I have had my shoes buying urges ruined by Douglas Adams and his comments about the Shoe Event Horizon in the HItchHiker's Guide to the Galaxy books all those many years ago.

Lucy Navigated and Breakfast Purchased

So once we were through security we moseyed around on “airside”, where there seemed to be remarkably few opportunities to spend money.

I am sure that this will be shortly rectified (or perhaps you just weren’t looking as you were hungry - ed) as the local council, the London Mayor and the latest Transport Secretary have all agreed a massive expansion of Lucy.

The moseying, was really to find the best place to eat breakfast, as anyone who knows me, knows that I am a massive grump if I don’t get fed and watered as soon as the sun has risen, and it was well and truly up and we were nearing a Grumpiness Chimp Arrival Event (™)

We settled on a place (possibly called Pilot - ed that had service to the table and a reasonable looking and well priced menu This turned out to be a good choice.

There was definitely an interesting crowd that morning (possibly every Saturday morning but how was I to know - ed), as it appears that Lucy is a place that a lot of what I can only call, “CIty Types”, use to fly places (given its placement in the Docklands, you can’t really be surprise can you - ed)

So, not only did we consume a very lovely breakfast (sadly no Champagne was imbibed as we both thought that it was probably too early; though that didn’t seem to hinder some of the other customers, where the corks were a-popping and the many people were kickstarting their mornings with iced-bucketfuls of Champagne - ed)

FYI My breakfast was smoked salmon, scrambled egg and toast, with a small bottle of sparkling water and a large Americano with an extra shot, if you were going to ask. Bridget had her favourite which was something fishy (possibly I cannot remember exactly what she had - but then I was too busy tucking into mine to notice, but I am sure whatever she had was very lovely too - ed)

The Innards of Lucy

The gate was finally called, but it refused to come along, like a very badly trained dog, so we had to go to it.

Gate 5 if my recollection is correct (not that it really matters, but this is for historical accuracy so that future historians searching the web for interesting facts could deduce that flights from London City Airport, (LCY), the aforementioned Lucy to Florence in early July 2016 were from Gate 5 - historical accuracy ed).

It appeared that Lucy was in a major renovation state, possibly due to its rapid expansion, but the walk to the next passenger coral point was mostly uneventful, though I was a little surprised when a head appeared in the ceiling and a “workman” said, “Sorry to startle you mate, just adding some more lighting”.

After a few tens of minutes enforced waiting, we were on the plane and away (it was an Embraer  which for those who don’t know is a Brazilian made plane, not some kind of hair removal treatment - ed), which was not in any circumstances a hair-raising flight.

As ever I got through the flight by keeping my eyes firmly closed, my hands firmly gripping the armrests and asking Bridget every minute or so, “Are we there yet”, which after many many times of asking was finally answered with a, “Yes Dear”. Phew.

Queue Management

Hmm, I was going to write about how airports and airlines manage their queues, but the excitement of that particular topic seems to have suddenly dissipated (really, on what level did you think that that might be on the interesting scale? - ed)

It was going to very interesting, in my opinion. Maybe it will crop up in a future blog, maybe it won’t.

Perhaps it will sit in my mind like a festering sore and then at some opportune moment burst forth and spread its acid contents over some unsuspecting bystander (the bile is back in town - ed)

Feedback

As this blog post, wends to its sorry and damp conclusion (what, it is about to finish, about time - too long by half - ed) I am minded to posit a theorem. But then again maybe not.

I think I should just wind up (oh you really really do a good job of that - sarcasm ed) and wish you all a fond adieu until the next exciting installment of the random walk through my actual and imagined life.

Fanny Handover Event

This will be in a later post and for those of you who have not been paying attention, “You at the  back there, doing the so-called Private Browsing, I can still see you what you are up to!”, was the whole point of the Italian trip.