16th September 2013

The journey to see David went reasonably well, by British transport standards, at least. On Saturday morning, Sue dropped me at the station, and, to my astonishment, the trains all ran on time. Less astonishing was the fact that, despite having reserved seats on all three legs to Manchester Airport, I found someone already sitting in mine on each occasion. The carriages were so rammed you could hardly blame them, though I did politely eject two of the squatters before settling in for a cramped but mercifully seated ride.

The Sheffield-to-Manchester leg was another matter. Two carriages for several hundred people is a bold strategy, and I failed even to board the right one. Grateful just to squeeze through the doors, I spent the next hour pinned against them, making polite conversation with a fellow traveller bound for Croatia. We bonded instantly. It’s amazing how sharing the same square foot of carriage accelerates introductions.

What a triumph privatisation of the railways has been! Particularly as my ticket cost only £3 less than my flight. By the time I get back, I expect the Post Office will be flogged off too, posting letters in bulk envelopes addressed to “Occupier,” stamps costing the earth and only available online, via a website desperately trying to upsell you pet insurance.

Outside passport control, I dined al fresco on Sue’s sandwiches before joining the very long, very slow-moving queue for security. After disrobing with several hundred fellow suspects, I had my boots scanned, suitcase opened, suitcase scanned, and then my body digitally overlaid with little boxes on a screen while a bored officer tutted and waved his wand. Declared harmless to Western civilisation, I wrestled my clothes back on and, dignity just about restored, found a bar in the departure lounge for a restorative pint of cider.

We boarded on time, only to depart half an hour late due to the difficult manhandling of an invalid passenger. Ironically, having been one of the first on board, I was immediately asked to vacate my seat by another traveller. The steward directed me to my allocated seat, a revelation! Sure enough, my home-printed boarding card actually bore a number. Well done, EasyJet. Take that, O’Leary, apparently, budget airlines can treat passengers like human beings. Where will it all end?

At Arrivals, Banjo (the dog) and David were waiting faithfully, and three and a half hours later, with a pit stop for a cheesy sausage roll and coffee, we juddered into Ritya.

After a quick look around, I retired to bed in their new apartment, claiming the very comfortable double room. David gallantly took the sofa bed in the lounge, next to the freezer, which, he reported, chattered away to him all night. Neither Banjo nor I have any intention of giving up our superior quarters.

Sunday brought a gentle village stroll, a planning session for the week, and some fiddling with new technical gear for the TV. Lunch was freshly scavenged from the salad patch, and dinner taken at the Sports Bar in Dryanovo, after a supermarket raid for essentials (cheese, sausage, and beer, naturally). Back at the apartment, we relived Sue’s and my Brazil holiday on video before putting on Gnomeo and Juliet.

David, overwhelmed by the day’s hectic schedule, nodded off before the end. A shame, really, unlike Shakespeare’s version, the lovers don’t die. They live happily ever after, no doubt leaving the way clear for Gnomeo and Juliet 2: The Garden Strikes Back.