Another day, another flight - this time from Belfast back to Leeds. And I'm carrying an additional passenger in my mouth in the form of my new bridge.
Like the Jacksons, it's a five-piece outfit and hopefully just as good at what it does. (Ironically, it's almost as white as Michael was in his final days).
The timing is particularly handy because, tomorrow, my airport tour moves into a new phase as we Whites head off on holiday to eat lots of food. I've had recent flashes in my head of the waiter asking how I wanted my steak to be served, and me answering: "Liquidised."
So, yes, we're due to drive across to Manchester at around 5am tomorrow (I know) before hopping over to Menorca for ten days in the driving rain. It's inevitable.
The fact that she is a White and that we're bound to get soaked is yet to dawn on poor Charlotte who, last weekend, spent some time trying to choose which sunglasses to take. Before deciding on them all.
But you never know, we might be lucky. Actually, that's just a silly comment.
Expect to hear from me again in the coming days from the sanctity of an Internet cafe where I'm seeking shelter.
