This threatened to bear an uncanny resemblance to a very long and very boring actual diary entry so I censored myself before you got sucked in, and you're now safe.*
As all of you faithful readers know, I was away for the week-end. Missed me?
OK, let's start with the flight to Toulouse. At around 12.45am the night before, I was going to bed as I thought to myself, 'now would be a golden opportunity to have one last look at the flight details', and so I do. Take-off 10.25, Check-in 8.25, Orly Sud. So far so good. Double take. Orly Sud??? I was going to go to Roissy (opposite end of Paris, as it happens). Now that would have been fun.
Fast forward to 6.00am. Definitely not my time. Oh no. Pack my bag, have a coffee, shower, re-pack my bag (of course...), check that everything is OK in the flat, do not worry about how Arthur is going to feed it(him?)self anymore, and off I go into the unknown.
Turns out the strike was over, buses and RER galore, I get to the airport one hour early.
Which is all right because I love airports. I just do. Apart from the fact that I was nearly converted by born-again Christians while having some very welcome coffee, I saw Marie-José Perec. Took that as as sign that my life was meant for great things, and then remembered that she rather nastily crashed and burned in Sydney, which can never be a good sign when you're about to board a plane, right?
OK, out with the suspense, I'm still alive.
* Actually just chopped it into smaller instalments. Cunning or what?