How not get to a meeting in Paris...
A french client called and wanted to see us. They are potentially a very good client. So we bravely decided to go and see them.
The easy option was to book a flight into CDG and get a taxi. The civilised option would be to catch the Eurostar. But we decided to do neither. We decided to drive. You see, a few weeks earlier I had an accident on ebay, and now in the garage was an alarmingly cheap convertible, and this struck Jude and I as the perfect opportunity to give it the beans.
We plotted the perfect schedule - leaving early one morning we'd whizz down to Felixstowe and jump on the Channel Tunnel, then waft through norther France, before arriving refreshed and ready for our afternoon meetings. We'd then leave Paris that evening and stay at nearby Reims, for a spot of champagne quaffing. Perfect.
However, neither of us foresaw the noro-virus that clobbered us both the day before we left. So our fancy trip through France was flipping ruined. Instead we nervously drove from service station to service station, tightly gripping plastic bags and quickly diminishing supplies of Imodium. Our slap up celebratory meal in Reims was too dangerous to even contemplate. And we arrived home sweaty, sick and exhausted.
So there you go. It was supposed to be sickening flash and annoying, but the almighty Lord Karma struck us a heavy blow!
Next time we'll take the Eurostar.