Feb 4th

No such luck. The wailing starts at some unGodly hour for such a Godly purpose, and I never get over them. I am up at 6;30, packing and showering and hoping Sofian has done his stuff. In keeping with the early hour, the breakfast arrives in installments. There is no bread, and I think he has ventured into town in search of some. The pancakes are flatter and crisper this morning, though lovely with the honey. We pay him for the taxi. Predictably he has no change and we tell him to hang onto about 4 euros which brings a wide smile to his face.
He rings the taxi and then direcsts us back to where we first met him. We wait for five minutes before our still smiling taxi driver arrives. I explain apologetically that we just didn’t have time for his city tour, but he feels sure we will next time Insallah.
The drive to the airport is swifter than on the way in, and wholly uneventful. Getting out is way easier than getting in, and at the airport I am even able to find a pastis for my dutch courage, albeit served in a plastic cup.
Onto Ryanair again, and it is a blissful flight home, looking out over the bleak empty African scenery. Spain is shrouded in cloud and we get the bumps over the bay of Bisacy, but Brittany is revealed under clear blue skies. I spot the suspension bridge at St Nazaire, then the town of Nantes. Soon we are passing along the Normandie peninsular, leaving France behind, and then seeing the perfect outline of the Isle of Wight. I lose my bearings for a while but take a pop on one town being Guildford,, and soon after comes the suggestion that this may have been correct as Heathrow comes into vew beneath. We head out into the country to the north of Luton, then swing back in, land safely and on time, but sadly are greeted with no fanfare.
Just over Portsmouth, the effects of the pastis and the on board beer are affecting my bladder. I make my way to the back of the plane, queue patiently for the bog, and just as my turn comes round the seat belt sign goes on and I am despatched to my seat. I squirm around for 25 minutes, and by the time we are all standing up waiting to alight I am desperate. It takes forever to get off the plane, and then there is a warren of corridors to negotiate. At every turn an arrow promising toilets taunts me, but they never arrive.
We get to the passport control, another queue, and I cannot wait for that. I turn left and head in the direction of the signs. Still they don't appear. Eventually I see the door and make a dash for it, wrestling at my flies as I run. I fling open the cubicle door, but I am not in time, and for the first time for as long as I can remember, I am in trouble. Iwrench out my tadger and point it in the direction of the pan, spraying it over the seat, and wetting further my trousers. Catastrophe!
I then hear voices. Peolpe heading towards the loos. Then a thought occurs. Where are the urinals?
The voices again. They are getting closer. In fact they have passed the door. And they are feminine. I look down at the pool of piss on the seat and floor, and emerge in time to confront them face to face. I mumble a shamefaced "sorry". And dive for the adjoining boys room. It is full. I hold my bag in front of my groin to cover my embarrassment.
A spoken fire alarm is now telling us to evacuate the area. The toilet empties and I dry myself down and change trousers, stuffing my wet things into my bag and hoping to God I am not stopped by customs.
We now have to get to Luton station, pick up H’s car and repeat our journey to Stanstead to collect mine. The journey is made in better spirits than last time, and in quick time. H drops me at the terminal as I need to get the bus back to the car park. She drives off and I have a quick look in the terminal. I notice it is 16:00 and that the Marseille flight has just closed. Hope everyone made it.
I am on the bus to the carpark when I remembered what had been bugging me. I had meant to get something from my bag before H let me off, but couldn’t for the life of me think what it was. And then it dawns. The car keys!!
I ring three times before she answers. She is all the way down the M11 and about to join the M25. How much more forgiving she is of my idiocy than I am of hers!
I have to get a car to take me back to catch another bus to get back to the terminal building. When finally it arrives, H is just in front. I buy a sandwich from Pret a Manger which we share, she heads off, and I am back to the car park once more.
I have to stop for a kip on the way home, but the journey is uneventful and soon I am back to H and the kids. Nice to see them all. We apologise for the paucity of their presents, but they don’t seem unduly perturbed.
We get a take away and eat around the table. Emma has had the runs and not been at school today Sophie has nobly decided to stay at home and care for her. It’s back to the grindstone! Super Douper Tuesday tomorrow.