Writing
It's becoming a habit, not posting anything on the site until the end of the week. I have an excuse this time, as I'm on the road.
Travel
I've written many times about how once glamorous travel had become increasingly grim and commoditised. Remember business class? The majority of flights out of Cyprus don't have business class. There are charters, low cost carriers and a diminishing numbers of "flag carriers". This trip, I was on one of the low cost carriers out of Paphos - the smaller of the two airports in Cyprus.
I tried to optimise for low cost travel, to embrace it.
Win 1. I wore shorts and a t shirt. Nothing in my pockets. I packed minimal liquids and technology. My aim - to make security as painless as possible. I breezed through. I'd accidentally hit an ultra quiet time and was all alone in the security hall.
Win 2. I had a paperback, so settled down with an overpriced sandwich and a decent book.
Loss 1. I'd booked Speedy Boarding. At Paphos, this means you are one of the first processed through to a metal shed on the apron, where you wait, nostalgic for the air conditioning that you just left.
Loss 2. Speedy Boarding had entitled me to a larger carry-on, meaning that I could pack into that, and carry my computer, books and notebooks in a smaller underseat bag. Seems a great idea - except that the effort to get more and more seats onto these planes, means that every cubic centimetre matters. My legs and my road warrior office fought for space for the whole flight.
The secret to flying low cost out of Paphos, is to wait until the last possible second before going through the gate, and have nothing to put beneath the seat. Wear cargo pants for your passport and paperback and resign yourself to the fact that your carry-on will be put wherever they can squeeze it - possibly the other end of the aircraft.
Win 3. Losing some weight helps me fit an airline seat better and not require an extension. I don't miss asking the attendant for a fat belt.
Loss 3. My car hire firm had instructed me that I needed to collect my car from the South Terminal at Gatwick, even though I was landing at North. I noted with some bitterness that there was in fact a desk at North - but I still had a twenty minute walk and automated train transit to go.
Win 4. The car hire company gave me an upgrade. I'd reserved a non-descript saloon, but ended up with a Merc. Nice.
Win 5. The standard route from Gatwick to my Mum's is M23, M25, M3, A303. Friday evening at 6pm. What could possibly go wrong? I had recently been looking at walking routes on Waze - so I'd turned on the preference to avoid motorways. That made for a very pretty, if somewhat circuitous route to Hampshire.
Loss 4. The UK is terribly keen on making its roads "smart". It initially does this by closing them in the evening. Less than twenty minutes from home, I was diverted off the A303 onto a single track backroad - along with every other confused driver in the area. We were soon in a queue, nose to tail. At the front of our queue, a driver was nose to nose with another queue. A Monty Pythonesque scene ensued as people reversed into hedgerows, trying to make space for others to pass. Eventually, my little Merc was catapulted onto a single track escape road, behind a van. Waze did its level best to recalculate on the fly, but kept guiding me back to the 303, even though the graphics indicated that the app knew the road was closed. It was getting a little tiresome. I kept seeing other drivers again and again as we pinged around the villages, trying to find a way through.
Win 6. When running our company in Andover, my partner and I would often drive to the villages to find a nice country pub for lunch. Eventually, my memory clicked in, and I drove from pub to pub, getting ever closer to my old office, and finally, home. Yet another reason that lunch at your desk is not good for you.
All of this, to say, that philosophy is important. I'd prepared myself mentally for the day to be a nightmare, a hassle, a pain in the backside. At times, the day had surprised me, and been better than that, but when things did start going wrong, I wasn't bothered. It was what I'd expected.
Post Script
I have a meeting in Birmingham on Monday morning. Rather than fight early morning rush hour, your forward-thinking, smug, philosopher has booked a hotel for Sunday night. A gentle Sunday-drive, I thought.
About halfway between Andover and Birmingham is a charming sleepy village called Silverstone. Sleepy, except for one long weekend per year, when it and all of the roads around it are gridlocked as the Formula 1 circus comes to town.
Which weekend you say?
Yep. You guessed it.
Start your engines...
