The First Rule of Flying

Catch your flight. Having characteristically failed at the first hurdle, due to circumstances beyond my control, namely a hangover, I threw myself at the mercy of BA's ticket people. I mean, I wasn't that late. I think it's perfectly reasonable to turn up at the airport within, say, 30 minutes of your departure time and expect to get on. Apparently not, even though I'd checked in online the day before. Roy, my BA man, tried to get me on, but the hold had been sealed and I was stuck. He apologised and said that the best he could do was put me on tonight's flight, something with which I was extremely happy, as when I was last here there was only one direct flight a week. So, I'm now on tonight's flight, which means that I can climb aboard, crash out and wake up in grimy London. The reality I'm sure will be different, probably involving being woken up to be prodded variously with food, drinks and duty free. "Would you like a drink, Sir?" "Why yes, thank you, that is precisely what I was thinking about IN MY FUCKING SLEEP!"

Anyway, back to the present. This being BA I didn't get charged for the flight home; take note SAA. I think Roy felt sorry for me as he also has manged to get me into the executive lounge, seeing as I'm going to be around all day. He will certainly be mentioned in dispatches. Now what's the chance of me getting an upgrade do you think? On the one occasion before that I've been in an exec lounge I thought to myself, "This is great, free food, free booze, free soft drinks, I could stay here all day." And now I have the chance. So exciting. I'll be posting later on with lots of spelling mistakes and poor punctuation. Probably be a few drunken rants too.

And so, to the past and the reason for my tardiness. Well, the reason is because I didn't leave myself enough time, but I think I'll blame the alcohol if that's alright with you. It being my last (sic) night here, I thought I would visit the Mount Nelson Hotel, as it would be frightfully impolite of me not to. The 'Nellie' is Cape Town's oldest hotel and dates from colonial times when the British army only fought fuzzie wuzzies armed with spears, and has beautiful gardens and grounds. Rooms cost from 600 pounds per night, so whilst staying there wasn't an option for me and my sanity, drinking heavily certainly was. To be fair, I didn't drink heavily, but on arrival I ordered a bottle of South African sparkling wine which was basically Louis Roederer Kristall without the price tag or loss of social credibility. Thirty quid and it was fucking lovely. Can't remember what it was called, but it was damned spiffing sitting there, drinking fizz amongst all this opulence, playing golf on my mobile phone, because I am a social pariah and have no friends. My waitress was dead nice though and kept bringing me snacks as an apology; at one stage I actually had to pour a glass myself as I couldn't find her. Once I'd finished the bottle she suggested a cocktail. Let there be cocktails, I have faith in you, bring me the finest cocktail known to man, the name I need not know. And Lo, there appeared in front of me a... thing. Looked like chocolate ripple ice cream in a glass with straws. And I moved upon the cocktail and fuck me was it good - tasted of chocolate, sweetness and ice cream. I know someone who would catch a flight from London to get her hands on one of those babies. Anyway, once I picked myself up off the floor, I decided to beat a tactical retreat and head home.

And that, your honour, is why I missed my flight.