Lonely in Cannes

Izzy’s high chair is empty; her little cot hasn’t been slept in. I’m sitting on a balcony overlooking a cloud-blanketed Mediterranean. The forecast was sunny, but this dull weather has pretty much caught my mood.

It started as a good plan. Every April and October for the last 20 years I’ve come down to the Cannes television festival, where people buy and sell programme ideas. That’s 40 weeks of my children’s growing up missed because of late night schmoozing. This time, I thought, as Izzy is so young, why not make it a family do? I had visions of tiny toes touching waves for the first time, of sandcastles and waiters in the restaurants succumbing to her big eyes and love of pasta. So we booked a few extra days before the festival began and rented an apartment with a sea view. We didn’t reckon on the bug.

It hit Jo’s tummy on Tuesday and promptly collided with a fearful respiratory infection. Poor Jo has been confined to bed all week: Saturday’s flight was out of the question. She hasn’t eaten a thing for days, something that her stomach doesn’t seem to have noticed: it still decides it wants to vomit every few hours. Nice one.

As a husband, I’ve learnt a few things not to say this week. Like “Well at least your tummy’s flatter” or “I’m making a nice piece of tuna, would you like some?”, or “I did so want to see Izzy in the sea”. I don’t think they went down very well as each time the large paperback hit my head in roughly the same spot.

I wish I could have stayed to offer more help and support (though I’m not sure how welcome it would have been) but the market beckons. One good sale could keep our company going for a year: it’s an event we can’t afford to miss.

I so wish Easyjet flew to Nice every day so I could have delayed my flight till the festival starts. I’m stuck here like a sad out of season tourist.

The trip down was greatly enhanced by a rather mature purser, or Senior Cabin Crew, as his badge called him, with a strong West Country burr. A stand-in from Bristol depot or office or whatever airlines have, he confided to me that he couldn’t understand a single word his Newcastle-based colleagues were saying.

He was very jolly, and clearly Easyjet had introduced some sort of incentivisation scheme for the onboard catering. “Good choice, sir, you’ll definitely enjoy that”, he said rather too loudly as I ordered a ham and cheese melt. “Oh, the Starbucks coffee too, that’s a great decision. It’s an excellent blend.” I wondered if he was an exile from British Airways first class. Then he made a tannoy announcement extolling the virtues of the “absolutely delicious” egg sandwiches, which he highly recommended as they were made from the airline’s own Easylay eggs. There was a hen party on board: I think they already had Easylay written on their foreheads, if you know what I mean.

When I arrived I decided to get the taste of Easysandwich out of my mouth, so I wandered down to a seafront restaurant and ordered bouillabaisse piled high with fish, mussels and prawns. I never remember whether you’re allowed to eat crustacea with or without an r in the month, but hey, I have the stomach of an ox. By the time I finished I never wanted to see another fish again.

The seafood had other ideas. Two hours later, I began to see them all again. I’ve been up all night and I know exactly how Jo feels. She says she’s given me something to remember her by. She also promises she won’t mention tuna, but is very much looking forward to seeing my flatter stomach when I get home.

Travelling with the Easyjetset

The queues snaked out of the departure lounge and down the corridor. Everyone stood silently, staring up at a small computer screen. I glanced at it: Newcastle - Boarding. Quickening my step and clutching my Speedy Boarding card I sought out Gate 84.

This was my first test of the Newcastle-Stansted route. I travel to London at least once a week and enjoy the train journey, but over the last couple of months the rise in prices on the East Coast line has finally pushed me to try something new. A friend had told me she swore by the Easyjet experience. It turned out to be an appropriate verb.

The 7am flight from Newcastle had been precisely on time, and although the Stansted Express, coupled with the Victoria Line, doubled the length of the journey, I reached my first meeting at 9.45pm. That's precisely when the 6.30am train would have brought me there, but I was £50 richer. If the return trip worked as well, I might just make Izzy’s bedtime.

I stood with my fellow speedy boarders by the unmanned departure gate and checked the screen again: Boarding, most definitely. In fact, it proudly claimed everything was boarding: Newcastle, Glasgow, Edinburgh and Belfast. But none of the queues seemed to be moving. Maybe it’s a ploy, I thought, to get people there on time.

Suddenly the tannoy caught everyone’s attention: it was an Easyapology for a delay on the 5.15pm Belfast flight. One of the queues swayed and I heard Irish murmurs. It was already 7.15pm. I smiled smugly: we were on “Final Call”. Except noone was there to open the gate. I frowned. Was there another Newcastle queue?

I asked the man next to me where he was going and he said Edinburgh. So did another. A non-speedy lady turned white and protested: this queue was definitely for Newcastle. Scottish and Geordie voices began a debate. We looked in vain for an Easyjet uniform. There were no staff at all for nearly a thousand people crammed into the tiny lounge. We checked the screen again: both Edinburgh and Newcastle flights said Gate 84, but the Newcastle flight was now “Closing”.

Half an hour passed. I rang home: we were already late, but the computer denied it. “Ask an Easyjet person”, said Jo with her American logic. “Not so Easy”, I said grimly.

I was just saying goodnight to Izzy down the phone when our queue suddenly disintegrated. Edinburgh was now in Gate 85. In their hurry to form a new queue, the Edinburgh passengers collided with another group of Easyscots from a Glasgow flight that had also been switched. The Edinburgh line had only just reformed when the screen changed again, to Gate 81. It was like musical gates: lines of sheep crossed the room, sorrying their way past each other.

Finally it was our turn to move, but not in the way we expected. Without warning the screen declared “Newcastle: Estimated 9.15pm”. We were two hours late.

The chap standing next to me told me it happens frequently: the Geneva plane to Newcastle was late so all the regulars had known since lunchtime that this one would be delayed too. Shame they didn’t tell the Stansted flight information board. The chaos and lack of customer care reminded me of another internal airline service I’d experienced back in 1993. But that was in Romania, a third world country in those days, where you had to bribe someone to get on board. I wouldn't expect this sort of thing in a British airport in 2010.

1993 was also the year I was a guest at a small dinner party in a swish loft apartment overlooking the Thames. It was a 26th birthday celebration for a delightful, shy Greek Cypriot man who’d bought the apartment with money from his shipping owner father. He’d also bought himself a small shipping company, but he was most excited about another project.

“I’m going to start an airline”, he told us. His name was Stelios.

We all laughed at the absurdity: he had to be joking. No, he was deadly serious. And on Friday, the joke was on me.