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!

It's nearly 7PM here in Ipswich - June 16th 2008. I'm still working on a paper for ECOWS 2008 - a conference on web services.
Thanks to Youtube, entertainment is blaring straight from my 3 1/2 jack to my ears. Suddenly pops up a Cranberries classic which brings back fond memories of my Cranberries period. I remember listening to Wake Up and Smell the Coffee when on the plane from Tours's minuscule airport to Essex's Stansted airport (1). It was back in 2004 and I was off to Ipswich for my second placement. Little did I know I would still be there some four years later. Whatever happened to my craving for travels and exotic places? Is that what they call senile rooting? The inability to move about till you receive brochures on senior travel to some remote middle east location for two including full board, wine, and a dedicated service should you need a pacemaker or a walker?

For your entertainment without further adue:

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(1) If you ever need to fly from Stansted and are bored in the long and winding security queue, spark off a discussion with your fellow passengers as to whether Stansted is part of Essex or Cambridgeshire or perhaps Hertfordshire. That is bound to get heated discussions about.

Saturday October 6^th. Wee hours of the morning - barely four actually. My phone rang, my radio blared out Eels music, I emerged of a short sleep. Slide down the ladder, into my trousers. Shirt on. All set to go. Rats, where's my phone? It's hard to think straight with only 3 hours of sleep.

I fumble about the bedsheets and finally find the rascal. Just in time too: the cab driver calls me up to confirm the address. 141B, yes that's on the station's side of the football ground. I'll be down in a minute.

A truck having burned down on the A12, we've got to take a detour. The driver speeds down a small countryside road. Gets the adrenaline shooting. Better wake up call than any espresso this side of Milan.

One turn, two turns, and finally Stansted. Two full hours before expected departure time. Plenty of time to grab a few snaps. The planes on the tarmac are all being readied for another round of extensive European travel. The actual strip seems clear of any traffic. However, the terminal is filling up steadily. Travellers from all over: businessmen, families, couples eager to clinch onto the last bits of summerly warmth.

Sleepy airbus

Time to board the plane. Switch the PC off. See you in Italy!

Here we are, some 8 hours before our planned departure for sunny Portugal. Yet another night spent in the brisk cosiness of Stansted Airport. And amidst the newly padded blue-shaded benches, a mighty Christmas tree cheers the atmosphere. At least 15 ft tall (Laurine reckons 20), with a myriad of bright white lights and several stars (not to mention tinsel and other sundry), it seems this conifer is now the pride of the airport, or perhaps even Essex (and its notorious girls).

More on our trip soon...