You never sleep all that well when you know that missing an alarm is not an option. I didn't even hear Francesco go to bed at 6am this morning because my trusty alarm clock had realised I heard him the other day and has started being quiet! Not that I needed it all week as I was awake but only because the 5am training hour is not a time for training at this time but it is still the hour of waking. And probably so for life.
We were due our transfer collection at 7.10am but I defy anyone to raise a 13yr old for that time on a morning without a scene. Sending her back to the baby shop for a refund is not an option and normally the comedy Damien child would be amusing but I could have done without her waking the whole hotel in protest and teenage temper tantrum. I guess some things from 2011 will be no different in 2012.
We cut a weary bunch but Tomka Toy made our Crystal Rep's day by presenting him with 2/3rds of a bottle of Vodka. His Newkie Boy grin was wider that a Newkie Brown Ale Bottle with teeth so white they caught the light of the millions of lights spread in every tree in Courmayeur. Guess he was pleased then.
The transfer is easy and relatively painless, particularly if you are on a coach and not crammed in to a taxi or minibus with less than half the spaces taken. A time to catch the sunrise as it caught the plateau or take a snooze. Less than two hours later we were delivered safely to Turin Airport Turmoil. Hell hath no fury than hundreds of revolving flights taking its cathartic cargo back to replenish with freshly fuelled fodder.
I officially hate airports after too many hundreds of check ins and arrivals and security and passport control and crap design and crap management and lest it go on, you get the idea. I wish I had started a performance indicator table for airports years ago because by now, I'd have got a mean assessment results table with which to beat the hell out of airport departure taxes. Some of them would be closed if they were schools or hospitals for being officially, totally rubbish. As if you can charge people in a service industry for that.
But today is not a day for being bothered to care though I do warn Group Dad that getting to the Gate is a mistake if you have not shopped, ate, toiletted or lost the will to stand like cattle without enough seats for the two hours pre departure where you have passed go and no one is allowed back for fear of something. If I could figure out what Turin airport is so scared of, I'd make them rich.
Ah well. Time to take in the varying shapes and sizes, families, couples and general debris of relationships, friendships, injuries and apathy that make going home so special. I work out by a process of over analysis that as they have sent all the UK flights to the far end of the airport it's actually pretty obvious what they are scared of. The English. They can't refresh us at this time on a morning - no cafes, bars or pubs - or they choose not to refresh us. Mmm. Who says the spaghetti wars are not alcohol fuelled.
Our flight is almost on time leaving although with a full flight of people, skis, boots and general guff taking off in a northern direction, in order to avoid a close encounter with Mont Blanc that is unplanned, we have to route round in a large circle to get enough height to take it on. They even unpacked the hot food and litre bottles of spirits to make sure. Bless.
The captain and 1st officer were jolly. A bit too jolly. I'd personally rather rely on their judgment than know what decisions they need to make to get us home safely but as most people are slothing, snoozing or generally being vacant due to a nice long week skiing, too much food, too much drink or generally just too much, I seem to be a silent silly billy so I keep quiet.
Soph has become boisterous in her mission to down the twenty five coke bottles that she would have to have surrendered to Italian customs. No way she could get them home in our cases. Her new outfit took up her case as it was. I copped for most of her kit anyway so she thought the best thing to do was make haste. I could, I know, have tried to stop her but frankly I'm a wee bit unwell and can't be bothered with the scene. If she feels sick, she might nor do it again.
Manchester is such an unsavoury airport. I think it every single time. It has this 'seen better days' look that no amount of cleaning could now alter. It looks shabby because it is shabby. Bizarre really that it is now effectively a northern UK hub for amazing middle east airports like Dubai, Doha and Abbu Dhabi en route to the rest of the world. I wish someone would really take to it with a fresh vigour and enthusiasm. It should be world class. Not jaded.
We leave our New Friends at the carousel and before we even got to the Radisson to collect the car, both Soph & I are proper missing them. Funny how sometimes you feel a fit and probably don't realise it fully until they are gone.
But out drive back to Yorkshire is light, airy and relatively straight forward. A lot of traffic around the sales shoppers at out of town retail parks but I guess the shops are pleased about that. I always feel that Little House on the Prairie welcomes me back home due to the many times I have passed it over the last 20yrs but it has a peculiar vulnerability and like many millions of motorists over the years, I always wonder what the owner feels like now.
A lavender bath and a siesta assuage my bodily bad behaviour and a catch up Eastenders reveals the Epic Matriarch that is Pat Butcher has died. I don't know anyone that doesn't love or loath her character but as with all Great Personalities, it is the depth of her loss that is felt more tenderly than the number of complaints. She has been part of my life for 25yrs and I did shed a tear at those final scenes in her In Mem programme. How can you not? Who could replace her?
Back to work tomorrow and a good work week ahead. The Yorkshire Haven reopens for 2012 tomorrow and I'm relieved. Home is Home.
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