No thank-you, minding yourself on a longhaul flight is tough enough. The brain goes kind of mushy round the fringes-no change most of you might say. Thanks, you enjoy your morning read.
Without children in tow, we feel pretty ragged when we fall out of the large tin albatross, before being interrogated by a suspicious points man at Heathrow, wondering what this rugby stuff is all about.
Round ball, soccer, association football; he understands those sports but this rugby thing has him a bit beat.
Your bosses have paid for you to be here have they, he inquired.
A nod of the head was followed up by supplementary questions about my travel plans, earnings and a return ticket.
Mercifully the queues at Thiefrow were not too long and moving. That did not last.
The queues, frisking and bag-searching which went on before connecting with a domestic hang-glider up to Edinburgh were extraordinary.
Our fortune was that we were at the beginning of the shift. I'd hate to think what they were like as the day wound on and the agitation levels rose.
Then the difficulties of child-minding followed me as I tried to have a meal on the first night in Edinburgh without falling into my soup. One high-chair secured midget, swiped his parents glass of vino and broke it all over himself.
Glass fragments everywhere, luckily without damage to life or limb, but a case of agitated parents apologizing profusely to staff and other patrons.
Aaaagh, the dramas of parenting. Babysitting a laptop on tour even for this technophobe, is far less stressful.
