If it's Thursday, it must be Amsterdam....

The rumbling thunder gives me hope....The rain, the perfect foil for hot toast, dripping with butter and a fragrant cup of tea, washes away the eye-rolling resignation of modern day travel.

The most annoying thing about terrorism is that it's set us back by a good 90 minutes. You need to get to the airports earlier to be poked, prodded and beeped at. Having to strip off belts, shoes, liquids, laptops and sundry is par for course, but having to then pad around barefooted while a scarf clad woman is fondled with the familiarity of an x rated film for 10 minutes makes you wish they'd just blow up the damn plane, and be done with it. Better than eyeballing the Millennium Dome for the sixth time as we grovel with airport control to get our wheels down, only then to packed off to a 'domestic' stand. I didn't fly in from the continent for all of 40 minutes only to be downgraded once on terra firma!

My resentment at being tagged a mere domestic abates as we take the 'short bus ride' to the terminal. I hear someone muttering remarks about the driver being lost, but I prefer to think we're being treated to the scenic route. My bonhomie evaporates an unexpected halt turns into a traffic jam on the tarmac, and we seem to make a u-turn.....!!! But then, the poignant sight of an obviously accidentally abandoned strolley makes my heart well (think abandoned orphan). We skirt around the forlorn sight, and I battle with laughter and guilt the tableau evokes.

A rumbling stomach, Immigration lines, a rather casual Heathrow Express, and picking the first carriage when I'm actually heading for the opposite exit turns my usually relaxing walk home into a pace setting endeavour... (I must be more suggestible than I thought.... one briefing at Schiphol on the Tour de France, and I'm a goner!). Still, it's only half eleven, Cala didn't die while I was away and I'm pleasantly dopey as I survey my muddy fingers with a great deal of satisfaction, as the truffle wilts in my mouth.