Bruce notes that Shez's appearance on the morning after was pretty typical of all of us. True. Unfortunately, instead of staying locked in a darkened room, I had to expose myself to the rude glare of the general public (where's my hoody when I need it?) while boarding the 09.30 flight to Brussels. Luckily I didn't really notice since all external sensation was drowned out by the drum & base party going on inside my skull. My torture was relieved when I remembered the pretty little coloured pills my Mum gave me for my "bit of a headache" in place of paracetomol. "They're you're Dad's painkillers" says she, "just a bit stronger than the normal ones"
She wasn't kiddin' either. I'd swear our Avro 900 did a Harrier-like vertical take-off, and I wasn't the least perturbed by the half hour wait at Brussels while the baggage handlers finished their lunch and then called for extra assistance to lift my 20kg suitcase. Nor even the taxi strike which meant I had to make my own way home from the train station. I was at one with the world as I skipped down the street atop my wheeled suitcase, shouting "Yeehah! Don't give up on me now Champyun old boy! The homestead's just over that thar rise".
No wonder my Dad is so relaxed and happy these days...
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