I don’t like BA’s business practices. But, despite myself, I like their service. 24 hours before flight time I check in over the Internet, choose my seat, all is well. I have to arrive 40 minute before take-off time

I time my train journey to get me there over an hour early. You never know.

When I arrived at London Bridge everything is going to plan. I locate the right platform then wait. Suddenly an announcement informs me that all trains going to Gatwick are delayed by at least 65 minutes. That would put me at Gatwick station 5 minutes before my flight is due to leave from Gatwick North. No chance.

I find the information guy and explain my plight. No chance. Could I get a train from Victoria? Nope, the problem was at Gatwick. My best bet is a taxi.

There is a queue at the taxi stand, and nary a taxi in sight. What’s going on? This is a mainline station, after all.

Eventually I get a cab. It will be expensive, I’m informed. I had gathered that, but what choice do I have?

The cab driver has the phone number for Gatwick. En route I phone them. They put me through to BA. The flight is delayed by 55 minutes. Who would have thought that I’d ever be pleased to hear those words? Providing I have no check-in luggage (I don’t) I’ll be OK.

I get to the check-in desk at 1505. Yes they can accept me. The flight is due to take off at 1610, and has not had a gate announcement yet. The nice lady on the desk tells me I’ve time for a cup of tea.

It is 30C, I am stressed taught as a violin string. A cup of tea? Yeah, right.

I sail through security (are you listening, Dublin? No queues!). The gate has still not been announced. I order a pint of bitter at the bar. I have drunk half of it before I get my change.

10 minutes later the gate is announced and we board. Take off is at 1610. Disaster averted. All is well. Deep breaths, find your centre.

As the drinks are distributed my lap becomes suddenly wet. Damn, and I had been so good with big boy underpants too. But it’s my neighbour. He has spilt his drink. Thank goodness it’s chilled water and not wine or coffee.

At Montpellier arrivals two girls stand holding a sign saying Julia Roberts. Surely I woud have seen her. She wasn’t in Club Class. Surely the girls would recognise her without having to hold a sign.

At the hotel in Montpellier I discover that once again I have lucked a suite instead of a room. This is the life.

I walk into Montpellier for a meal. Damn, but I love Montpellier. There is a public Salsa party going on in one of the squares. A Salsa band plays while the public dance, sway or just sit and listen. The sky is overcast, but the heat is oppressive. It is like walking through soup. But no-one seems to mind. They saunter gently along the boulevards, or sit at pavement cafes. Why get stressed? Isn’t that what tomorrow is for?

I find a cafe in the old part of town and order bull steak. It resists my knife worse than Laura resists my sexual advances. Those of you that know Laura will realise just how tough that steak was. I shall not be returning.


About snodlander
Snodlander is the nom de plume of Bob Simms. He is an IT trainer, but it's not as glamourous as it sounds. When he's not enthralling classes with adventures through SQL Server, he writes, draws and drinks his own home-brew. Buy his novel on Amazon Kindle at The Young Demon Keeper, It's 74p, for crying out loud!

3 Responses to Montpellier

  1. Geek says:

    You shan\’t be returning to the steak restaurant, or to making sexual advances?

  2. Bob says:

    I suceeded with the steak. I have not yet suceeded with you

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