The air stewardess on the plane from Chicago to Memphis this morning asked me if I was from London after I mumbled the words “coffee please”
to her. I looked up over my tired baggy eyes and nodded in the affirmative.“Oh great, do you know Steve Fox and Michelle Abbott?”
I gave her an incredulous look. “Er, no I don’t believe I do.”“Oh, it’s just that they are friends of mine and they used to live in London.”
I’m home now after a work day that started at 4am and ended at 10pm, all for a 3-hour meeting and a curled up sandwich, via two states and four airplanes.
Tomorrow I make a return to lovely O’Hare airport but this time with a skip in my step as I head to the UK for a long weekend, starting with a Friday night that will probably see the end of 21 days without a drink – god I could have murdered a cold one at Fort Smith airport, Arkansas this afternoon – and then a drive down to Fratton Park on Saturday to see Djimi Traore score a hat-trick, something that will end my faith in the human race.
My son will be with me to witness his first ever away game and he’s extremely excited, if only he knew how cack we were!
I was told by my brother today that we have only sold 600 tickets, and although it is hard to make much noise in that crappy open end, one thing is for sure, If we win there will a bloody party!
It’s along the coast to Eastbourne after that and I return to Chicago next Tuesday, only to end up back at O’Hare the following day to go to some other Hicksville joint where the people that inhabit these small towns scare the living Bejesus out of me. Give me big cities any day of the week.