Backski

The hotel did have internet access, but it was unutterably overpriced and mostly not working.

Having said that, it all felt so jetset. Oxford to Gatwick, Gatwick to Madeira, stay in posh hotel for a week (incidentally getting kisses from Italian rock star, but that's not for now), back to Gatwick, *change planes* for Glasgow, drink leisurely pints in (okay not exactly jetset Premier Lodge) hotel bar and sleep the sleep of the recently holidayed in preparation for a big meeting today.

Meeting over, experience the joy of BA self-service check-in -- sometimes technology really does change the world for the better -- then buy splendid bottle of Tobermory whisky in tax free shopping as homecoming present. Take off belt to avoid beeping the security thing and invoking unpleasant search procedures, nearly home now so don't bother putting it back on.

Get to Heathrow, hang around for holiday bag which is gloriously and unprecedentedly pretty much first onto the carousel, dump onto trolley and skid hilariously down ramps and round corners arriving breathless but just in time for the airport bus back to Oxford, while lesser travelled mortals are still blinking at the hopeless Heathrow signage and wondering if it's safe to take off their flight socks yet.

Arrange for M to pick me up round the corner from the St Clements bus stop. Feel generally supremely in control of things.

Get off bus, retrieve high-tech bag which is essentially a rucksack with straps which zip away. Decide not to unzip them, as only have to heft bag round the corner.

Three steps later, as bus is pulling away, unbelted trousers slip down a bit too far, catch on sandals, left ankle slips over sideways... hop... hop... bag held funny, hop.. stagger... falling in slow motion... crash.

Suddenly, I am sitting in a puddle of expensive single malt.

And of course, someone I know is right behind me.

Arse.

joella