They woke me up at 8 something and I wanted at least 8 hours more sleep. I was on the 4th floor of a Business hotel attached to the North Terminal of Gatwick airport and already I was feeling the joy. I had so much to look forward to. A bed into which you could sink and lie comfortably. A shower that you could control. A toilet that would accept toilet paper. An environment without cicadas. Food that I could recognise.
We pootled down to breakfast having taken the lift to the 8th floor just to drink in the view. Breakfast was hauntingly familiar with self-service fried food, cold meats and fruit, foreign serving wenches, orange juice on tap and complicated breads you had to cut yourself. We took advantage of the £13-a-head meal and rolled on.
Packing for the last time, we took the covered walkway back to the North Terminal, the hovering Monorail back to the South Terminal and the wandering freebus back to our car.
The journey up to Gatwick had been beset by pointless delays, of which the Chichester bypass was only 4. We elected to take the M25 instead and ran into our first holdup on the M23 where we used our handbrake on a motorway yet again.
3 further accidents caused slow-mo transport including a horse box on its side with attendant fire engine, those horses are so flammable. Guildford insisted we pass at a sedate trundle and the big signs over the M27 said terrible delays, go back but once we'd used some back roads to avoid it we found them to be lying. Plus we got to hear England winning the Ashes.
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