Belfast, child.

Like all tube-travelling Londoners, I hate those little wheely suitcases with the pull-out handles, and dismiss those who use them on the underground as arseholes. That said, watching my Mum accidentally broadside a small child with hers at the airport this afternoon has almost turned me round on them. The kid was wearing a massively inappropriate amount of hot pink for a three year old, and sailed a satisfying distance when Mum caught her. Mum was, of course, mortified. I managed not to laugh out loud in front of the parents. Takes all sorts.

I’m in Belfast now, having suffered the comedy spanish train driver on the Gatwick Express (imagine a train driven by Manuel from Fawlty Towers – you’re not quite there, but you’re within spitting distance), and the mad bastard pilot who talked about about ninety-four miles per hour, and seemed to have made a concerted effort to aim for every bit of turbulence en route. How we laughed.

Back Sunday night.

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