Heading to the A3, the driver asks if it's OK to take the A3 and M25 route. It's longer and thus more expensive, but quicker. I already was OK with this anyway but what I was less OK with was his overtaking people on the inside and generally making the ride unpleasant. I also was unimpressed with large chunks of the M25 being a fucking car park. Lastly, I didn't really appreciate paying SEVENTY FUCKING QUID to get to the fucking airport. I am never taking an Uber to Heathrow again. Even if I did learn that Frank Muir has a field name in memoriam.
The other thing that happend en route to the airport was a flurry of messages from Kayak telling me that my plane was delayed. Only by 15 minutes, like. I knew the plane was flying to Malaga and back before heading to Dublin, and it got there roughly on time but wasn't leaving on time.
By the time I've got to the First Wing at terminal 5 – where, given just how bedraggled I both look and feel, I'm fully expecting to get the "er, sorry, but this is only for First class passengers and gold card holders" treatment, but instead I get a smiley "welcome back sir!" – the delay is half an hour, as the lady behind the desk tells me. She also says there is good news: it will leave from a gate directly beneath the lounge.
Ah, the lounge. I do like me a good lounge, and I consider the BA First class lounge to be good. Straight on the champagne, I am instantly inundated with requests for boozer advice near Waterloo because apparently there is much train fail. Loz and I have a proper chinwag, as do Helen and I. Further alerts arrive, telling me my half hour delay is now an hour.
Hang on, I'm on the last plane to Dublin today. It apparently left Malaga then went back. What's going on? Oh, flightradar24 says they've swapped and now I'll be on something that's flying down from Edinburgh instead. And there's no way that hour delay is getting shorter. All my cohorts in Dublin are having a merry old time. I have another champagne, then make myself a giant plate of curry and fish cake and rice and stuff. C'mon freebies, help me out here.
While I eat I have a can of Tiger lager and it is disgusting. I guess they'd only just refilled and I got the warmest one available. Never mind, I can fix the fail by cracking on to the whiskey - yeah, with an E, an Irish whiskey in remote solidarity with those who have successfully made it to the start.
I mean, it's not like I was the only one with peril. 3 of them had Ryanair flights, whose Dublin-based pilots decided to stage a one day strike solely on the day they all needed to get to Dublin. But they had backup plans: Ed bought an insurance Vueling flight from Barcelona; Mark and John ended up taking their insurance train+ferry from the west country and Wales. I had no back up, and nothing was getting any earlier. Helen asked me if I might be going straight back home. Um, maybe?