A-ha. Got some time at the airport to do one final UK based blog. Even though I am all checked in and ready to go I can't quite get my head around the fact that I am going to be on the beach tomorrow.
Maybe it's harder to believe because I spent my morning at work, if dicking around with Collings can be called work. Yes it can. It is the hardest job in the world. For him at least. He isn't taking a holiday which made me feel a bit guilty, partly for him, but mainly for you listeners at home who will have to endure him and Michael Legge next week. Hopefully he will show you why he has a Chortle award and I don't. But it's unlikely.
Only one lift was working at the BBC and lazy Collings wanted to wait for it, but I decided to walk up the five floors to the office. "Let's see who gets there first," Collings challenged me. I could see as I passed the first floor that the lift was heading down to him. Surely he would win. But on the second floor I hatched a fiendish plan and pressed the up button so that the lift would stop on floor 2. I did the same on floor 3 and 4 and arrived at the top comfortably before my foolish nemesis. It amused me to think of the lift stopping on the second floor and him expecting someone to get in, then on floor realising what I had done and waiting for the inevitable interruption of his journey at floor 4. I was already sitting at my desk, laughing. Mainly laughing because I am 43 and he is 45 and we are at work and I still find this amusing. It's actually more funny because of our age. Collings ruined my triumph by not coming straight to the office and instead going to the toilet to do a poo. He doesn't know that I know that, but when I went to the toilet later it became clear what had delayed him. The smell of digested soot hung in the air.
We asked people for their beach stories and Collings told a charming tale of the day he and his brother were allowed to get their vests wet at the seaside. I had a surprising number myself, most of them tales of misery, which made me wonder if heading out to another beach was a good idea. I have been badly sun-burned as you will find out if you read back to August 2003 and lost kites and sat on Chard Island wishing that my life was better, and back in 2001 before I started this blog, I was rolled over by a wave in shallow water, hit my head on a luckily sandy part of the rocky beach and somehow managed to cause one of my testicles to swell up to twice is (already impressive) normal size. On the plane home I realised that the accident had given me a super power of being able to gauge change in air pressure with my massive ball. With great power came great pain in this case. It was only a temporary power alas so I was unable to turn it to my financial advantage.
How will I be battered and bruised and burned on this holiday? I guess I am about to find out. Having said that since I have holidayed with my lovely current girlfriend (let's keep her on her toes) I have had less pain and more pleasure. Though my iPad predictive text wanted to change holidayed to holocaust which is perhaps not the best sign. But come on, what's the worst thing that could happen on a plane or in an airport? Oh yeah. Shit.
Que sera sera.
London was so cold today that it's more than worth any risk to be in with a chance of two weeks in the sun. I will think of you all and I wish Collings had taken me up on my offer to come with us and act as our butler for the fortnight. He could have slept at the foot of our bed and had all the soot he could eat. He seemed up for it, but I told him that under no circumstances would he be allowed to get his vest wet. He lost all interest. I will miss him most of all.
