You are speaking to a not very happy post-Easter bunny. I've rapidly come to the conclusion that the French are my least favourite people - or at least, the French air traffic controllers are. Fancy going on strike when I'm due back with Paddy - most inconsiderate.
I heard about the strike yesterday morning, and was siezed by a sense of impending doom, but communication with Bristol airport set my mind at rest. Yes, the flight was going, no, they did not expect to be cancelling, and yes please, turn up with your bags at the allotted time. So, I went off happily for a last lunch with my daughter Elizabeth and her mad colleagues, and had a thoroughly good time, as well as an excellent jambalaya at the Seco Lounge in Royal William Yard, Plymouth. So far so good, and the lady at the check in desk assured me that we were definitely going to Alicante. She lied.
At 19.00 hours, the departures board said 'boarding information available shortly.' At 19.30. it still said the same, and at 19.55 - take off time - the announcement came over the tannoy 'Will all passengers on cancelled flight EZy 6075 please report to Gate 6 for further information.' So I did, along with the cancelled passengers from the Faro and Malaga flights. And collected my baggage again. And queued for 2 hours to get the flight re-booked and a hotel sorted. And waited for another 2 hours while the rest of the passengers who couldn't get home because their home was in Spain or Portugal were also sorted.
It wasn't all bad though. There was the amusing interlude when the Police were called to a group of girls who had demolished the vodka they'd bought in the Duty Free shop and were now getting very vocal and aggressive, and wanting to go where they had no chance of going. After one of them took a swing at the officer, another form of transport was arranged. Luckily there are no air traffic problems between the airport and Bristol Nick, although the girls were so wired they could probably have flown to Malaga without the help of the plane.
While we were waiting for the transport, there was another classic 'Blitz Spirit' moment, when one of the stranded passengers got philosphical.
'Oh well, it could be worse,' he said. 'At least we haven't got a suicidal pilot.' Okay, it was in bad taste after the recent air disaster, but we all needed something to laugh at, and it did put the whole thing in perspective. Yes, it was an inconvenience, but at least we would be getting home at some stage.
The problem is, when you have well over 100 passengers needing transport and accommodation, it takes a while to get it organised, and at midnight, when we had hotels but nobody to take us to them, the ground staff suggested we get taxis and keep the receipt for a refund when we finally get away on Saturday morning. The other alternative was to get on the airport shuttle bus, which stops close to my own particular hotel, the Mercure Holland House. By now, I was past caring about the dangers of being alone in a strange city in the middle of the night, so I took the bus option. The bus driver spoiled my chances of being ravished by stopping right outside the hotel, though. Ah well - better luck next time.
When I got to reception, I perked up at the sight of the very decorative Spanish night porter. Things were 
looking up, and they looked up even more when I saw the room. It was a Privilege Room, which is normally around £100 a night, and I swear it's as big as Algorfa. I could get lost in it without trying too hard. Mind you, I needed a running jump at the bed. Good job I can handle heights okay. The only thing I haven't managed to find yet is the hot and cold running sex slaves - maybe they're hiding in the wardrobe. Better check before I complain to reception.
After a pretty good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast, I'm ready to rumble, so once I finish this post, I'll go and show Bristol what it's been missing all these years. Only drawback is, I can't do any retail therapy, as I had to sit on the cases to get them closed. I could always buy another bag though, I suppose!
So, hopefully I'll be back in Spain on Saturday morning, when the French have stopped doing what they do best and buggering up everybody's holidays. Still, it's been a great trip, and a little bit of pampering before I go home won't come amiss. I've got fluffy bath robes and everything. Better change into one while I'm waiting for the sex slaves ...
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