En Route

The train from Portsmouth was heading for Waterloo. It had no baggage racks. I asked after this rather glaring omission as the train staff began some glaring of their own as I hove into view dragging rather more than the proverbial polka-dot knapsack on a stick over my shoulder. They looked over my bags sneeringly.

"It's not designed for baggage."

"Sorry?"

"Yes, well."

They walked off. I spent the journey encamped in a hopefully South-West Trains staff-proof fort of my own construction between the buffet and the disabled toilet.

At Woking I jumped train and caught the coach to Heathrow, where I disembarked at the Terminal Krissa and I have come to know and love; good old Terminal Three. This was sadly an empty and pointless gesture as mere seconds after the coach had pulled away I noticed that the flight boards were curiously devoid of anything to do with my own conveyance to pastures new, and that I should have got off at Terminal Four.

Once I had the correct terminal, it was a simple matter of waiting five and a half hours for my flight to leave. It is a sad truth, but I really don't trust the public transport in this country, and the safety margins which I had sensibly allowed on paper had metamorphosed into a seamless and perfect series of catching earlier and earlier versions of the various modes of transport I needed, meaning I had checked in by 1.15pm for a flight which leaves at 6.30pm. One bonus was that I avoided the conventional check-in, and my guitar, in its epic hardcase, was waved aside as a frippery and passed as hand luggage rather than being checked into the hold for the princely sum of £60.

Score!

Right, I'm not buying duty free, but there's no way I'm being tempted by the Costas and Starbucks, and not sleeping on the flight. No way.

I love Heathrow. The last call for a flight to Cairo has just gone out on the tannoy, and my excitement is mounting minute by minute.

At this rate I'll need to stock up on duty free to help me sleep on the plane...

Happy Landings, people.