Given the plane to Naples leaves at 6am tomorrow morning, it was generally decided that I’d spend the night at Gatwick Airport then just walk to the security gates. This seemed sensible because it would mean I’d not have to actually wake up. It also meant, as I explained to the train guard, that my holiday actually started early.
Of course, being the third Sunday of the month my first job was to visit the market. I was a tad annoyed that Bodkin weren’t there when I’d arranged to take them some bottles but the pickle people were in their usual spot and we had a lovely chat.
Apparently, they told me, the asparagus crop this year hasn’t been good so the price per kilo is a bit excessive. For this reason they weren’t going to pickle any. Then he remembered “That chap at Farnham,” and a woman from somewhere else and decided to make 30 jars.
How lucky am I? Well, lucky in pickled asparagus maybe. Not so much with the weather.
As I was stood, discussing the wonder that is my favourite vegetable, the clouds decided to pour forth great gushes of water and I was drenched.
At the same time Mirinda was performing her usual Sunday morning yoga ritual on the grass. She felt a few drops and figured it was nothing. A moment later she was very wet.
I arrived home looking very much the drowned rat. She laughed and took a photo.
The rest of the day was spent packing then preparing Mirinda’s dinner for tonight. She then dropped me at the station for the trip to the airport.
Something I don’t understand is why the trains from Clapham Junction heading south after 7pm on a Sunday are packed solid like peak hour weekday trains? I skipped two because they were too full. As it was, the third one was standing only but at least I didn’t have to cuddle anyone obnoxious.
(Meanwhile, in the horror book I’m currently reading I discovered the reason why the Chinese spit so much is a direct result of global climate change. Go figure.)
I managed to find the Yotel – it’s directly opposite the arrivals bit in the south terminal – checked in and then went looking for food.
I think it’s quite ironic that the only pub in Gatwick is a Wetherspoons when nearly all the flights come from and go to European destinations. Looks to me like the ghastly owner is feeding off the European teat. Needless to say I ate at Giraffe
Back in my room a little while later, I had an excellent waterfall of a shower before climbing into my cosy cabin bed and went to sleep.
Big day tomorrow, small room tonight.