So, the Isle of Dogs. Otherwise known as Canary Wharf, Millwall, Docklands. No matter what you call it, it's not exotic. That said, the name 'Isle of Dogs' does conjure up images of pirates, loose women, and much ale-swilling in Dickensian taverns. Could anything be further from the truth?
Anyway, the weekend was great and just the break I needed. I was staying with friends who had 'surprised' me with a ticket to see Alicia Keys. Now, you know how much I value friendship, but there are some things that even the strongest friendship can never recover from.
I'm not saying the concert was bad. I'm saying it was dreadful.
Just the worst thing I've ever been to in my life. To say it was cruise-ship entertainment would be doing a disservice to all of the professionals currently hoofing their way around the med.
She started with a song that involved a lot of warbling. It's not that there wasn't much variety, but the same song continued for an hour and a half, then she sang 'Falling'. Then we left.
The evening wasn't lost, however, as we met up with more friends and worked our way through the cocktail list at the local high-class-hostelry. This seemed to set the tone for the weekend, and it descended into two days of cocktails, hangovers, scary bars, scarier clubs and propositions that were gigglingly rejected. We were like a bunch of schoolgirls let loose in London town.
At City Airport, and in the 'holding pen' before boarding the flight home, I decided to do my usual 'pass five minutes' exercise. I like to look around to see a) who I'd like to sit next to (and there were a few guys who fell into this category) and b) who I'm most likely to sit next to.
In category b, there was no competition - a huge (I mean huge) American guy, with perspiration issues who kept shouting 'Can someone just open a freaking window in here'. The room was crowded but there was no-one standing within five feet of him.
Naturally, by the time I got to my seat (3C, aisle seat, front row of economy, god bless Air France for knowing me so well) I was sat next to said 'big guy'.
Luckily, there was an empty seat between us. He called the steward and asked for a 'belt extender' because 'the belts on this type of aircraft are always so short'. Then proceeded to huff and puff his way into said belt contraption.
I closed my eyes, thought of Geneva and the next thing I know, we're hitting the Swiss tarmac.
"You snored" sneered the big American.
"Yeah? Well now you know how your wife feels" said I, and I skipped off the plane, homeward bound.