The Off

For two decades, Heathrow was my second home. I felt as comfortable sauntering the capilliaries of its sprawling tentacles as making tea at home. Business consultants are defined by their clients but ranked by their destinations. An urgent summons to a meeting in Madrid carries more kudos than a visit to a metalbasher in the Midlands. Or as someone wryly remarked, a consultant is just an ordinary person a long way from home. And conversely, no man is a hero to his valet. In any case, for me, hopping on a plane to Frankfurt or New York was as commonplace as the daily commute on the tube for most Londoners and I felt a reassuring superiority to the bewildered vacationers who clogged the airport during school holidays. So packing and preparing for those  trips was merely a matter of routine. My passport resided permanently in my laptop bag and everything else was ticked off a list, a well-honed routine executed in a few minutes. But holiday preparations have always been different. In business travel, you are cradled in corporate efficiency: if you miss a scheduled flight, an assistant will find you another. In the supposed relaxation of vacation time, you're on your own. If that train, booked months ago at a super-saver rate, leaves without you, it's an expensive mistake. My two brushes with petty theft also occurred during leisure travel, when inconvenience was exceeded only by embarrassment: here was the suave business traveller conned  by a common fraudster.
Having left St Pancras on time, the East Midlands train rocked up at Sheffield tantalisingly just too late for my connection, so the two hours waiting for the next lumpen diesel was enough time to finish Michael Frayn's Skios, an amusing diversion blending the farce of Tom Sharpe with the astutness of  David Lodge.
As the train shuddered through the Hope Valley and the hedges peeled back to reveal the hills beyond, the realisation of hubris seeped in. What task have I set myself and am I equal to it? Tomorrow will tell.

© David Thompson 2012