Before I rant, I'd like to show you a little project I have been working on for the last three years.
I'm about to give birth to my first baby.
In all her glory, Mushy Peas On Toast - the novel - will be out in roughly three weeks. As soon as you see the little Amazon and Kalahari.net thingiemabobs on the side of this blog, you can go ahead, click on them and buy my book. For sheezy. It's pretty isn't it? What with the rolling peas and all.
Three weeks, chaps!
But before I get to the point where I get to hold my baby after it has been delivered from the printers, I'm concerned about getting to Tel Aviv.
British Airways has gone and bloody well fucked up my flights. I need a gin and tonic, and I don't see one close by. They've overbooked my flights to Israel, so when I get into Heathrow, the BA managers at Terminal 5 won't know what is going to fucken hit them.
A slightly bleak, irate woman who is feeling tearful and itching to create a scene.
Who would've arrived after 11 hours, with horrendous water-retention of ankles and a possibly irrational fear of the Middle East.
Well, not a fear per se, just a bit of, you know, traveller's nerves. That Wailing Wall is waiting for me.
Fuck it. I'm off to get sloshed before I board.