A Ticking Bomb

It had to happen sooner or later. I’ve had this cloud effectively hanging over me since we moved here so at some point I was going to get caught out. You don’t commute between France and the UK for eight and a half years and not, eventually, become a victim of a strike. Now I’m a fan of a certain amount of union power, checks and balances and all that, but hitherto all strikes have been planned well in advance; civilised affairs that allow the traveller to make other arrangements. Now either I’ve been living under a rock or watching the daytime French news (much the same thing) but this Air Traffic Controllers Strike came literally out of the blue. 
The fact that Flybe didn’t know that my flight had been cancelled was no surprise whatsoever. People moan about Ryanair (I do, often) but in terms of customer disdain, deliberate website confusion and lack of information, Flybe are way ahead.  
“WE operate this flight and I can tell you it’s NOT cancelled.” Said the rather chipper ‘Customer Service’ agent on their expensive ‘customer service’ helpline. 
“I’ve taken this flight a lot.” I said, trying to remain calm, “Your partner, Air France, operate the flight and their website says it’s cancelled. As I booked the flight through you, you need to check and then refund me.” 
She went away to check and returned to the phone five minutes later and behaved as if I’d pulled a Jedi Mind trick on her. 
“Our partner Air France operates this flight and it’s cancelled. I can offer you a full refund.” 
Getting one over a budget airline is all very well of course but the fact is that I still needed to get back to England, and with Eurostar upping their prices by the minute driving seemed an attractive proposition. It’s a chance to stock up on crisps but also Samuel had also expressed an interest in playing cricket so I was determined to strike while the mood was still there and bring back a cricket set. I didn’t fancy a full seven hour drive to Calais though so instead went for the Dieppe-Newhaven ferry at six in the evening; Dieppe is only four and a half hours away but as it was already one o’clock when I booked it, it was going to be tight.  
There’s something old-fashioned about ferry travel, partly because it’s a childhood memory of family holidays and school trips but also because, more often than not, the boats have remained the same while the operating companies have changed almost bi-annually and with it the livery. These boats have had so many makeovers they're like old soap actresses, they resemble old hospitals or council buildings that have had a ‘happy’ picture painted on to the wall to distract you from the cracks, the dirt and the overall sense of misery. 
The ‘Seven Sisters’ operated by Transmanche Ferries is just like that. It may have been grand once but now has the feel of a neglected school ‘portakabin’ which no amount of grandiose names like ‘The Agatha Christie Salon’ (some tables next to a half empty shop) or the ‘The Hillaire Belloc Salon’ (a cordoned off part of the bar which was occupied by tired looking scooter mods) is going to change. The fact that the boat was half empty too all added to a fin de siècle feel, a cloudy day leaving Dieppe on a run down old boat. Almost everything, including me, felt like it had seen better days. I seriously doubt whether Dom Joly does actually travel by ferry and if he does I’m sure it was the inspiration behind ‘The Dark Tourist’. 
‘The Lanes’ Restaurant was a quiet affair too. Ferry food really could benefit from a Jamie Oliver type investigation and I suspect that much of the muck he cleared out of British school canteens has ended up on cross-channel ferries as trucker fodder. The restaurant’s spirited attempt at a cosmopolitan menu was divided by nationality, Boeuf Bourgignon for the French, Spaghetti Bolognaise for the coach load of Italians that hadn’t shown up and Chicken Tikka Masala for the English obviously. For those whose hackles are now going up, get over yourselves, it’s the national dish. I was working in India during the last football world cup and every day the hotel buffet would have a theme depending on who was playing that day, pasta for the Italians, beef for the Argentinians, dog for South Korea etc. When England played they just served extra curry which I thought was a nice touch. This stuff though brightly coloured like a good Chicken Tikka Masala should be, was the wrong bright colour and was more reminiscent of the kind of stuff one sees swilling about on the floor on particularly rough crossings; it looked like the kind of curry I used to buy in a tin when I was a student, a real old fashioned curry from a time before our palates were educated. I really shouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as I did. 
All the time I was superciliously wandering around this travel throwback, Natalie was having other problems. 
“FUCKING GAS GONE N CANT FUCKING OPEN OTHER BOTTLE” is a text that leaves the recipient in very little doubt of the sender’s mood. The gas bottles supply the kitchen hob, they weigh a tonne when full and are, frankly, a pain in the arse to attach and get up and running. I thought that I’d left a new one all hooked up just for the, inevitable, eventuality of it running out when I wasn’t at home. Clearly not. 
I got a series of texts for the next couple of hours, all slightly escalating in anger and frustration as Natalie fought with the bloody things, my joke about waiting until morning and asking one of the ‘binmen to help was particularly ill-received. Eventually though I got a text saying that there was now a permanent smell of gas and the stuff was everywhere apart from the kitchen. These things only ever happen when you’re away, thanks to French Air Traffic Control I was stuck on the ghost ship from Normandy when actually I should have been at home enjoying a family, albeit gas related, evening. 
The pompiers were called and arrived with an equally tooled up squad from EDF-Gaz de France, all looking like the scene from E.T. when the ‘government’ take over the house. Natalie and the boys had been warned to stay outside and away from the kitchen end of the garden. It was by now after ten at night and obviously quite a traumatic event as Maurice especially wanted to keep rushing inside to ‘save his Egypt collection’. The problem, it turns out, was that the second gas bottle was also empty and that Natalie hadn’t been able to open the ‘new’ one as it was already open, her efforts had dislodged the pipes and so the gas had escaped. “It was nothing really,” said the pompiers,“you were right to call.” Though I suspect they’ll want a bigger contribution come Christmastime and they’re hawking their calendar about from door to door. “Better to be safe than sorry,” said the EDF-Gaz de France people, “you don’t want to be blown sky high!” 
As if Air-Traffic control would allow that... 
The book A la Mod... of how all this started is out now in all forms and perfect for your grumpy dad this Father's Day.