A military operation immediately loses to curry

Or: how my meticulously timed itinerary lasted roughly 2 hours

I arrived in London with a plan. A proper plan. Timed, scheduled, practically laminated. Napoleon would have looked at it and said, “A bit much, mate.”

Then reality turned up, wearing a Ryanair lanyard.

The journey (a cautionary tale)

The flight to Stansted was, and I choose my words carefully here, horribly uncomfortable. I’ve had more legroom in a hamster ball. Once safely on the ground, I was rewarded with an hour on the Stansted Express and a couple of tube changes, which is London’s way of asking, “Are you sure you wanted to come?”

Yes. Yes, I was.

Eventually we reached Southwark station and our Premier Inn. The room is fine, the location is excellent, and nobody has yet attempted to charge me for breathing, so we’re off to a strong start.

Step one: the schedule says pub

Bags dropped, and exactly on schedule (enjoy that, it’s the last time), we marched to the marvellous old Lord Clyde for a pint of Tribute. Real ale, properly kept, in a proper pub. Each sip washed away another layer of Ryanair trauma. By the bottom of the glass, I had been fully rehabilitated and was prepared to forgive everyone, including the airline. (I later reconsidered.)

Step two: the schedule is overruled by my stomach

Unfortunately, real ale has a side effect: it makes you hungry. And so, with no warning to the Ministry of Itineraries, we deviated from the plan and headed to Est. India, the local Indian restaurant. The gin and tonic was good. The food was excellent. The plan was quietly taken outside and shot.

I suspect this will not be my only curry of the trip. The itinerary may as well accept this now and save us both the heartache.

Step three: early night (a bold strategy)

A ten-minute stroll brought us back to the hotel for an early night, UK time. A sensible, mature decision, made by a man who clearly doesn’t know his own body.

Because here I am at 3:30am, wide awake, typing this on my phone with the thumbs of a man wearing oven gloves. Jet lag is a stretch for a one-hour time difference, so I’m calling it what it is: Premier Inn’s very comfortable beds conspiring with a curry-and-ale cocktail to keep me up.

Day 2 awaits. The plan says “sightseeing.” My stomach says “breakfast.” We all know who’s winning.