Flying back on the Election Special flights is a bit like flying back home for Christmas. Everyone and his or her brother or sister takes advantage of the special price, and the planes are always choc full. When I called, a couple of days after it was made official, the earliest flight in I could find was Wednesday evening, returning early on Sunday morning, which meant that I had to take more precious days off than I had planned to. Still, it's civic duty!
Anyway, at the airport on my way in, there was a second cousin, two old friends from the clubbing days (one now with a three-year-old daughter!), the daughter of an old friend, and a someone who I thought I knew vaguely from somewhere, but who turned out to be someone else. She and her boyfriend had only just moved to London in January and were loving every minute of it. As luck would have it, they were sitting next to me, so by the end of the flight, we had swapped phone numbers with the intention to catch up on return.
When I was last here two weeks ago, in the frenzy of finally taking the grown up step of starting to look for a property to buy here, I thought I had a rather genius idea: to return to live here and continue to work in London. It would be great, I thought, to have the best of both - spending the weekends on the island, and weekdays in the city. I could give up the flat we live in and crash on friends' sofas during the week, thus saving myself heaps of money. With an English salary, I thought, we could live like kings here. And it would only take three hours to get there.
But the flights I have caught to and fro recently were hardly straightforward three hour journeys, and now my plan is not looking so clever. Take coming here for example: I left the office at 6 p.m. for an 8.30 p.m. flight, thinking I had loads of time.
It took me about one hour 20 minutes (I was doing it the economical way, so no Heathrow Express) to get there, check in and do all that stuff. Then there was the usual wandering round the shops, sitting around reading, and then the inevitable delay. We ended up boarding the plane half an hour later than our departure time, and leaving a full hour and 20 minutes later. Even though the company was good, the flight itself was rather bumpy, and there was a rough patch when we all thought things were going to get a bit scary - although it could have had something to do with the fact that the woman next to me had slightly hysterical tendencies.
In the end, I ended up getting home at at well past 2 a.m. - that's a good seven hours after leaving the office - and that's with no waiting at the carousels for luggage and a car waiting to drive me straight home in the middle of the night. As my head hit the pillow in exhaustion, with the fact that I was now past my deadline ticking at the back of my head, I thought on how completely crazy my idea had been, and how it was a surefire way of giving myself a nervous breakdown. So I think it will be some time before I'll be back.
At least for the moment.
Anyway, at the airport on my way in, there was a second cousin, two old friends from the clubbing days (one now with a three-year-old daughter!), the daughter of an old friend, and a someone who I thought I knew vaguely from somewhere, but who turned out to be someone else. She and her boyfriend had only just moved to London in January and were loving every minute of it. As luck would have it, they were sitting next to me, so by the end of the flight, we had swapped phone numbers with the intention to catch up on return.
When I was last here two weeks ago, in the frenzy of finally taking the grown up step of starting to look for a property to buy here, I thought I had a rather genius idea: to return to live here and continue to work in London. It would be great, I thought, to have the best of both - spending the weekends on the island, and weekdays in the city. I could give up the flat we live in and crash on friends' sofas during the week, thus saving myself heaps of money. With an English salary, I thought, we could live like kings here. And it would only take three hours to get there.
But the flights I have caught to and fro recently were hardly straightforward three hour journeys, and now my plan is not looking so clever. Take coming here for example: I left the office at 6 p.m. for an 8.30 p.m. flight, thinking I had loads of time.
It took me about one hour 20 minutes (I was doing it the economical way, so no Heathrow Express) to get there, check in and do all that stuff. Then there was the usual wandering round the shops, sitting around reading, and then the inevitable delay. We ended up boarding the plane half an hour later than our departure time, and leaving a full hour and 20 minutes later. Even though the company was good, the flight itself was rather bumpy, and there was a rough patch when we all thought things were going to get a bit scary - although it could have had something to do with the fact that the woman next to me had slightly hysterical tendencies.
In the end, I ended up getting home at at well past 2 a.m. - that's a good seven hours after leaving the office - and that's with no waiting at the carousels for luggage and a car waiting to drive me straight home in the middle of the night. As my head hit the pillow in exhaustion, with the fact that I was now past my deadline ticking at the back of my head, I thought on how completely crazy my idea had been, and how it was a surefire way of giving myself a nervous breakdown. So I think it will be some time before I'll be back.
At least for the moment.