But first, there is gatwick.
The admiral and I check into the delightful crown plaza, just two and a half miles from the airport, and settle down to a well deserved drink and lovely meal. We are, after all, on holiday now.
I am reliably informed by hawkwood that Crawley, our present location, is affectionately known as creepy Crawley by Brighton folk.
Despite being only twenty miles away, he declines my invite to join us for a drink.
I eat too much and elect to take the stairs back up to the room in an effort to walk off some of the calories.
“Isn’t this carpet well vacuumed?” I exclaim to the Admiral. “Not a bit of fluff in sight”.
This is surely going to be a raucous trip.