OK, so when I left Geneva this morning, no-one told me that my connecting flight in Paris was cancelled, even though it had already been cancelled an hour before I checked in.
I arrive at CDG and walk to my gate, completely ignorant to the fact that I ain't going nowhere.....
I'm not surprised really, the first flight didn't so much land as was blown out of the sky and chanced upon a runway. Many green-coloured passengers disembarking. Anyway, all of the flights to Amsterdam are cancelled and I'm sat on a waitlist for a flight sometime in the next couple of hours.
I did try the 'do you know who I am?' line and they told me that yes, they do indeed know who I am, and that is why I'm number 4 on the waitlist, not number 24. Sometimes even celebrity doesn't help that much.
Let's hope that this storm blows over and they start to fly planes again.
Why I'm travelling from Geneva to Amsterdam via Paris is a question in itself. One that is best directed at my glamourous assistant, who tends to go for price over convenience....I'll kill her.
Meanwhile, I'm in the fancy lounge and knuckling down to some serious work, as you can tell.
Ho hum. Wish me luck.
lundi 10 mars 2008
dimanche 9 mars 2008
La Nouvelle France m'attends
So I'm off to Montreal for easter. But the question is this, do they have Mounties in Montreal?
Short of the teeny tiny possibility of bumping into Rufus Wainwright, while he's back in town to visit his Mother (it'll be a chance encounter in the street, he'll be instantly captivated by me, we'll hang out for a couple of days and then he'll ask me to marry him to keep me from leaving the country), anyway, beyond this Mounties are the thing I'm most looking forward to.
Maybe it's a hangover from my big crush on Paul Gross from Due South, or maybe it's just the uniform, but I'm really hoping they're there. And that there's a bar in the village that has a Mounties night.
Any other recommendations for things that may entertain me in Montreal are very much welcomed...and remember, I'm pretty easy to please.
Short of the teeny tiny possibility of bumping into Rufus Wainwright, while he's back in town to visit his Mother (it'll be a chance encounter in the street, he'll be instantly captivated by me, we'll hang out for a couple of days and then he'll ask me to marry him to keep me from leaving the country), anyway, beyond this Mounties are the thing I'm most looking forward to.
Maybe it's a hangover from my big crush on Paul Gross from Due South, or maybe it's just the uniform, but I'm really hoping they're there. And that there's a bar in the village that has a Mounties night.
Any other recommendations for things that may entertain me in Montreal are very much welcomed...and remember, I'm pretty easy to please.
King of the road
Phew. Have just got back from the airport, having deposited two old ladies and seen them through the beeping machine. God knows if they'll find the plane, but I certainly hope so. My life is my own once more.
So now I get to start thinking about preparing for a rather scary couple of weeks of traveling.
Tonight I'm off to Geneva, then Amsterdam, Brussels, Den Haag, Amsterdam, Birmingham, Manchester, Paris and home Saturday evening. It's a bit of a ridiculous schedule, to be honest, but it's sometimes much easier to do it all at once. That's what I keep telling myself anyway. And there is the promise of some lekker and large entertainment along the way to look forward to....
Anyway, I need a cunning plan. A plan that keeps me out of the UK, but cuts down the amount of traveling I do. I love the traveling in many ways, but sometimes I want a life, not a life on the run.
And the plan is no longer to marry the Swedish dentist and become an Uppsala housewife. That plan was very 2005, and it didn't work out (much to my disappointment - I'd already picked out a very lovely housecoat).
So, for the time being, life continues.
While everyone else is happily watching Antiques Roadshow and tucking into a plate of Mr Kiplings fancies, I'm going to be driving over the mountains, heading for a week of mithering continental sorts.
Cunning plan, anyone?
So now I get to start thinking about preparing for a rather scary couple of weeks of traveling.
Tonight I'm off to Geneva, then Amsterdam, Brussels, Den Haag, Amsterdam, Birmingham, Manchester, Paris and home Saturday evening. It's a bit of a ridiculous schedule, to be honest, but it's sometimes much easier to do it all at once. That's what I keep telling myself anyway. And there is the promise of some lekker and large entertainment along the way to look forward to....
Anyway, I need a cunning plan. A plan that keeps me out of the UK, but cuts down the amount of traveling I do. I love the traveling in many ways, but sometimes I want a life, not a life on the run.
And the plan is no longer to marry the Swedish dentist and become an Uppsala housewife. That plan was very 2005, and it didn't work out (much to my disappointment - I'd already picked out a very lovely housecoat).
So, for the time being, life continues.
While everyone else is happily watching Antiques Roadshow and tucking into a plate of Mr Kiplings fancies, I'm going to be driving over the mountains, heading for a week of mithering continental sorts.
Cunning plan, anyone?
mercredi 5 mars 2008
Did anyone order two old ladies?
Well, my mother arrives tomorrow. With her sister (yes, my Aunt) in tow. God help me.
So, I've cleaned the house from top to bottom. I've removed anything that may upset or offend. I've made sure that the fridge is cheese-free (otherwise my mother won't eat anything that's been in it - she has a cheese phobia) and I've made sure there's plenty of gin in stock for the Aunt. Luckily there always is.
I even mopped the floors with a special 'parquet brillance'. It has made my wooden floors shine so much that I've fallen on my arse, twice. I've now taken to walking very gingerly about the flat. Ridiculous.
My mother called me this evening to ask what time her flight is and it sounded like she was at the bottom of a hole.
Apparently she's losing her voice.
Thank the Lord for small mercies.
The weekend may yet pass without incident.
So, I've cleaned the house from top to bottom. I've removed anything that may upset or offend. I've made sure that the fridge is cheese-free (otherwise my mother won't eat anything that's been in it - she has a cheese phobia) and I've made sure there's plenty of gin in stock for the Aunt. Luckily there always is.
I even mopped the floors with a special 'parquet brillance'. It has made my wooden floors shine so much that I've fallen on my arse, twice. I've now taken to walking very gingerly about the flat. Ridiculous.
My mother called me this evening to ask what time her flight is and it sounded like she was at the bottom of a hole.
Apparently she's losing her voice.
Thank the Lord for small mercies.
The weekend may yet pass without incident.
mardi 4 mars 2008
Didn't your parents buy you any toys?
Well, tonight I arrived home grumpy. I don't know why. I had a decent enough day - interviewing in Paris all day with my lovely colleague - but when I got off the train at Part Dieu, I just felt grumpy.
Maybe it was because I had a seat that faced the back of the train (I hate that, and SNCF know it - why do they do that to me?). Maybe it was because the TGV travels so darn fast that my internet connection can't keep up. Maybe it was the snow that had started to fall.
Anyway, I got off the train and felt grumpiness wash over me.
Then I read the comment from Valleys Mam, who suggested that next time I'm faced with an in-flight breast-feeder (see In-flight catering, below) I get my dick out and claim equality for the sexes. This made me laugh a lot and brought to mind the following episode (VM, this one is for you...)....
I was travelling by plane from Birmingham to Glasgow about three years ago, and was sat in the middle seat between two colleagues. It was an early morning flight - we left at about 6.30 a.m. - and so, having been woken by middle of the night alarm clocks, we all promptly fell asleep upon boarding.
Anyway, whilst sleeping the sleep of the innocent, I had a less than innocent - some would say downright filthy - dream which involved me 'pleasuring myself' 'manually' and achieving much joy from said 'pleasuring'.
I woke, with quite a flush in my cheeks and a need to reposition myself in my seat.
Whilst repositioning myself, I noticed that my flies were well and truly open, and gaping....
Surely I didn't.....
Two days later, I fell asleep on the train from Birmingham to London. Yet again, I was taken by the same filthy (but not un-enjoyable) dream. Again, I woke up to find my trousers undone....
It'll not surprise you to learn that I quickly developed a fear of falling asleep on any form of transport.
Maybe it was because I had a seat that faced the back of the train (I hate that, and SNCF know it - why do they do that to me?). Maybe it was because the TGV travels so darn fast that my internet connection can't keep up. Maybe it was the snow that had started to fall.
Anyway, I got off the train and felt grumpiness wash over me.
Then I read the comment from Valleys Mam, who suggested that next time I'm faced with an in-flight breast-feeder (see In-flight catering, below) I get my dick out and claim equality for the sexes. This made me laugh a lot and brought to mind the following episode (VM, this one is for you...)....
I was travelling by plane from Birmingham to Glasgow about three years ago, and was sat in the middle seat between two colleagues. It was an early morning flight - we left at about 6.30 a.m. - and so, having been woken by middle of the night alarm clocks, we all promptly fell asleep upon boarding.
Anyway, whilst sleeping the sleep of the innocent, I had a less than innocent - some would say downright filthy - dream which involved me 'pleasuring myself' 'manually' and achieving much joy from said 'pleasuring'.
I woke, with quite a flush in my cheeks and a need to reposition myself in my seat.
Whilst repositioning myself, I noticed that my flies were well and truly open, and gaping....
Surely I didn't.....
Two days later, I fell asleep on the train from Birmingham to London. Yet again, I was taken by the same filthy (but not un-enjoyable) dream. Again, I woke up to find my trousers undone....
It'll not surprise you to learn that I quickly developed a fear of falling asleep on any form of transport.
lundi 3 mars 2008
London calling
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.
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.
In-flight catering
Is it just me? Maybe it is.
Friday afternoon I take the plane from Geneva to London City for the Isle of Dogs weekend. The plane is full, but I have my favourite seat (the aisle seat in the first row of economy) so all is well with the world.
The window seat is taken by a thirty-something business guy, all suited and booted (and quite a hotty, if you'll forgive me). In between the two of us sits my nightmare passenger - the mother with baby. It's not an old baby, but it's a bit hairy, a la Suri Cruise. I'm now expecting and hour and half of screaming kid....
The baby didn't cry. Mother had a secret weapon up her sleeve. Well, not so much up her sleeve as in her blouse. We had barely left the ground when out came the titty and the baby was attached.
Both me and the cute suit shifted uncomfortably in our seats.
It's not like she was even discreet about it. She just sat there, tit out and baby sucking. OK, now I know that all of the female readers are going 'so?' and 'Oh come on!' and 'it's only natural'. But it was really uncomfortable.
Anyway, mothers milk being obviously quite rich, the baby proceeds to fill his nappy. It stinks. Mother puts her breast away and takes him off the the toilet (after getting me to hold the kid while she sorts out a clean nappy). Trust me, it stunk.
With mother out of the way, the cute suit looks at me and says "Is that normal behaviour?". I can tell that he too secretly wishes he'd taken British Airways.
Mother comes back with clean child and, no sooner has she returned than the blouse is opened, the titty is out and the child is, once again attached. Ten minutes later and the same foul smell is choking everyone. Cue, repeat of the whole palava....
On her return to her seat the second time, the mother does nothing less than open her blouse and flop it out again. She's sat there, tit out, when the steward comes up and says "We'll be landing in five minutes, you may want to finish the job on the ground".
Is it just me? Maybe it is.
But it seems to me to me that - despite it being very natural, blah blah - that breastfeeding on a plane, sat between two strangers (both men) and in such close proximity, was actually a really bizarre thing to do.
But hey, at least the baby didn't cry....
Friday afternoon I take the plane from Geneva to London City for the Isle of Dogs weekend. The plane is full, but I have my favourite seat (the aisle seat in the first row of economy) so all is well with the world.
The window seat is taken by a thirty-something business guy, all suited and booted (and quite a hotty, if you'll forgive me). In between the two of us sits my nightmare passenger - the mother with baby. It's not an old baby, but it's a bit hairy, a la Suri Cruise. I'm now expecting and hour and half of screaming kid....
The baby didn't cry. Mother had a secret weapon up her sleeve. Well, not so much up her sleeve as in her blouse. We had barely left the ground when out came the titty and the baby was attached.
Both me and the cute suit shifted uncomfortably in our seats.
It's not like she was even discreet about it. She just sat there, tit out and baby sucking. OK, now I know that all of the female readers are going 'so?' and 'Oh come on!' and 'it's only natural'. But it was really uncomfortable.
Anyway, mothers milk being obviously quite rich, the baby proceeds to fill his nappy. It stinks. Mother puts her breast away and takes him off the the toilet (after getting me to hold the kid while she sorts out a clean nappy). Trust me, it stunk.
With mother out of the way, the cute suit looks at me and says "Is that normal behaviour?". I can tell that he too secretly wishes he'd taken British Airways.
Mother comes back with clean child and, no sooner has she returned than the blouse is opened, the titty is out and the child is, once again attached. Ten minutes later and the same foul smell is choking everyone. Cue, repeat of the whole palava....
On her return to her seat the second time, the mother does nothing less than open her blouse and flop it out again. She's sat there, tit out, when the steward comes up and says "We'll be landing in five minutes, you may want to finish the job on the ground".
Is it just me? Maybe it is.
But it seems to me to me that - despite it being very natural, blah blah - that breastfeeding on a plane, sat between two strangers (both men) and in such close proximity, was actually a really bizarre thing to do.
But hey, at least the baby didn't cry....
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