Nathan Jones you've been gone too long

I was up early working my way through a pile of ironing, and then spent a couple of hours writing. My lunch was interrupted by the Belgians who live round the corner. They wanted to have a discussion on the subject of 'white ants' (termites in the woodwork in your parlance) as, they tell me, this is a big problem in Bergerac. I sympathised with their plight (the Belgians, not the termites) and they inspected the walls gravely (again, the Belgians). I gave them a set of keys and they invited me in for a drink and I said as a joke, 'Ooh, haven't you got any nice chocolates?' They appeared not to be amused. Hey - new friends! Free drinks! To be honest, the smell of alcohol from their combined exhaled breath will have probably cleared up the termite problem without the need for chemicals (DDT or whatever it is they use these days).

I packed my bag, as I recall, and I walked slowly down the hall...and then Michael very kindly chauffeured me to Bergerac International Air Shed.

"The flight's full and will depart early so please go through security by 4pm" Miss Congeniality said, as they always do. The fact that check-in is open until 4.50pm, and the plane doesn't arrive until 5.15pm seems to be neither here nor there in their book of strange Ryan Air-esque logic. I ignored the advice and drank greedily from the cup of the place they call 'Bar' where lovely people willingly dish out drinks just because you ask them to.

Eventually I gave in to the increasingly urgent calls over the PA, and joined the Daily Mail hell that was the departure lounge. It was like being at a meeting of the Countryside Alliance and the UK Independence Party all rolled into one, with extra children for good measure. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Mesdames Messieurs, welcome to hell." I purposely sat at the back of the plane so I could make a nifty escape when we landed at Stanstead, but unfortunately it was so blinking windy they could not open the rear door. Consequently I was the very last passenger off the plane. Doh! The best laid plans of mice and men...and terrapins. The Stanstead Express clattered into Liverpool Street where I realised I had lost my automatic pilot instinct on the underground and had to consult a map. And all the prices have changed in an upward direction. Well done again! It already was the most expensive subway system in the world - now it's even dearer, and still almost undoubtedly the worst system in existence to boot.

How surprised was Sammie (the dog) when I walked in the door. Pretty darn surprised I can tell you. She didn't know what to do, and so more or less had an epileptic fit the effect of which lasted for half an hour. It felt odd to be home, but equally it was also very good to be there, even if I do have to sleep with a dog (yes, I mean Sammie thank you mister smart aleck) snoring in my ear. I thought I might cough up a furball before the night was through. In addition, outside it was blowing a gale and the wind was whistling around the eaves, up the adams and straight down my back passage. Exactly the right ingredients for a good night's sleep then. Not.