The plan for this Christmas was simple. After heading to Kim’s parents for the day itself, we’d be embarking on a plane to visit my wonderful sister and her family in France for a week in a house in the middle of the country, as much cheap wine as you can drink, and tormenting my small nephew (last year, I “taught” him how to do a Chinese burn – by practising on him. Well, as a youngest child myself, I now have to get my turn at being an older bully. Hurrah!)
We caught the train from Canterbury to London with plenty of time to get the plane from Stansted, and started to get excited about the journey.
And promptly got no further than Ashford, a few miles up the track. Nothing was running out of Ashford – the snow had caused a power failure in one of the lines, which meant that nothing could go through it. And, despite the multiple lines, despite the overheard power cables (used only by Eurostar), the only option was to go back to Canterbury and hope to pick up a train later.
We ended up getting a coach that finally got us back into London at 5pm, some two hours after our flight had flown and a grand total of eight hours after we’d originally left Canterbury. Flights are now booked up until the new year, and the only other option – Eurostar – would cost us a grand total of nearly £400, which is a ludicrous amount to pay for a short break when you’ve already bought flights.
So we’re in London. If anyone fancies a consolationary drink, give me a call. Frankly, we need one (or two!)