Back In Blighty

I am not a good traveller. I fret that something is going to go wrong. So when we approached Vancouver in the small hours of Saturday morning I convinced myself there would be no taxis to get us to the Airport Fairmont. Wrong. Next I fretted that we wouldn't get the desired seats on the plane. Well I was partly right on that score but the Groupie did some skilful negotiation and we were placed alongside each other. And then in a piece of great good fortune the seat on my other side was not taken and I luxuriated in a double space for the width of the Atlantic.

Thus had we made it to London in good shape. All that was left was the train back to Brum. On which I now sit, part of a seething mass of sweaty humanity, trying to ignore the pissed-up Scotsman behind me who has with him two bottles of Coke and a full bottle of scotch which he plainly intends to empty before the ultimate destination of Glasgow. It's good to be back.