Today was down in the diary for High Anglican — effortless cruising through the stratosphere, gin in hand. We booked with Branson for a bit of added Virginicity. Bad Call. We got screwed for Virginicity. Wobbles began with a Right Royal Trailfinders Cockup where two others got allocated four tickets, so there were none in our names when we arrived at Heathrow. After an hour's telephonic hufflepuff with Trailfinders, brand spanking new e-tickets in hand, we hit the Double Booking zone. RB had stuffed his olive so full they needed fall guys. As Volunteer Sacrifical Lambs, RB will buy us tickets anywhere in the world any time in the next eighteen months. Only Branson don’t do Sydney. He ain’t no GAFCON man.
Well, with a silver wedding anniversary coming up next year, Lucy and I thought, why not? We joined the ranks of penally substituted scapegoats. Personally I think we deserve recognition — nothing pretentious — just, say, a tall conical hat saying — “Sacrifical Lamb — I gave up my seat that others may fly.” Not that I’m into self-pity. So, after wrestling with a mighty clunky online check in, we were soon killing time for England in a flattist chic travel lodge, shooting the breeze with an incredibly nice American family who chose to join us in the wilderness. Chicago tomorrow. Come on, Richard Branson. You can do it!