Sleepy Suffolk

It all started with the usual Ryanair treatment: a delay due to the plane bound for Nantes not being there. Not being there I hear? Well where on Earth had it gone? Not to worry Mr. O'Leary was on the case and soon found out some naughty leprechauns had forced ATCs (Air Traffic Controllers for those non-planecabulary-aware) into a strike thus delaying the Dublin-Stansted flight and therefore the Nantes flight (as it was meant to carry us, wee passengers bound for what Ryanair dares call Britanny). As to whether Nantes is part of Britanny or not, we shall let other people deal with it.
Once we did manage to get airbound (after I recharged my laptop in a stealth electric plug at Stansted; some Italian 50-some doofus willingly kicked my charger around to then say scusa scusa... And la tua mamma, fa la pizza? Why did he have to hover round me in the first place?), we were some two hours late. As a result, whilst we'd planned to visit our folks down in Cholet - dear ol' timers - my sister and I drove back to her place where I met with the giggly monster!