Escape from USA; starring Bridgjo

So it was bridgjo's turn to get across to Blighty at the week-end. It was fortunate, in a way, that we are almost royal in the way we'd decided to travel separately, as it made his journey less difficult than it may well have been.

He arrived at the airport on Friday and was told that his flight was cancelled as snow-bound Amsterdam was closed, but, no worries, he could travel the next day via Atlanta/Schipol/Teesside.

So the next day, he optimistically set off, and had got as far as Atlanta when he was told that Schipol was closed (as they were refusing passengers other than those who were not going on a connecting flight (ie Dutch people only, presumably)), but he could get to Teesside (possibley) on the 23rd.

He'd naturally checked all his bags through and was stuck in an airport which was rapidly becoming a little bit truculent.

He tried (with alternating success) to persuade them that he was quite happy just to go to Amsterdam, thinking maybe he could get a ferry across, or, maybe, by this time, fashion a small dirigible out of discarded drinks bottles. But although one desk said yes, another said no, and yet another said "Have you tried this airport cheese?", he had no luck.

Luckily, due to his Northern grace and charm, he managed to get on a stand-by flight to Manchester.

All around him though, people were in tears, starting to lose their tempers (and in one case, losing their passport).

He then had to rugby-tackle a few old people out of the way when the stand-by list was opened, and finally managed to get himself a seat.

By the time he got to Manchester, he phoned me up at my parents in Stoke and insisted, quite manfully, we met him there. I felt quite giddy.

It was a surprisingly rubbish trip up by train. Although we had first class tickets (this was so I'd be surrounded by a better class of people when I travelled up by myself with T), it was basically second class with a the 2 crossed out in biro and a 1 written in. I am never too impressed when I have to clean the toilets myself before use. Furthermore (FURTHERMORE!) there is only one first class lounge at Manchester Piccadilly...and it belongs to Virgin which refused us "cheap-seat Trans-Penine losers" entrance. Luckily, I had yummy-mummy-made Christmas cake and water which I had knicked from the lounge in Stoke, so the journey just flew by.

By the time bridgjo got to his home, and he was seated, washed, fed and clothed in his dad's pants, he gave a audible sigh of relief.

No sign of his suitcase, though it might even make it before we leave. In case you ever need to know, it is actually quite possible to go on holiday with the clothes you stand up in (as long as those clothes include two pairs of knickers). Even Whitby sells socks.

Hats off to Delta for getting us all here though, and struggling to get our bags to us. They deserve a mince-pie.

It is the coldest I have ever experienced in Whitby without there being an enormous Easterly gale of the variety which causes locals to mutter "Yes, it's 32 degrees centigrade, but it's minus 6 wind-chill". It's been minus 11, which caused my chilblains, which haven't been around since I was a student and going to night-clubs in high-heels, to wake-up and say "Ey-up".

The next-door neighbour came round quite early on asking for hot water to unfreeze the out-door toilet as he has a burst pipe, and needs to find out where it is (suspecting it's somewhere under the concrete floor there). So he's had to turn his water off.

Hilariously, the gas men came round to the street outside to check on a gas-leak, didn't tell anybody, and turned it off and on. Unfortunately, Marnie's boiler is teenager-like and has buggered off to its room to sulk...so we have no heating as it refuses to come out and turn on.

No mince-pie then for British Gas.