Next time, I’m swimming to Calais

Friends in Calais invited me to their baby’s birthday party. He’s a year old. They suggested an overnight stay and I planned to reach France by about mid-afternoon and have a stroll, visit the sights, buy a bit of tat for the nipper and a litre of plonk for the proud parents.

Clouds of sweet diesel vapour enveloped me. My pulse quickened. In the 1970s, it all smelt like this

The morning express sped me south and I was entertained on board by the Bing-Bong Pixie who referred to the train as ‘this 10.02 service from London Victoria to Dover Priory’. She recited the name of every stop on the line and repeated it twice each time we reached a new station. Her chirpy tone concealed a rather malevolent side. She seemed convinced gangs of fare–dodgers were operating on the train. ‘This service is patrolled by uniformed and plain clothes revenue protection teams,’ she said. I was surprised to be treated like a criminal by this paranoid robot and decided to raise it with the inspector when he arrived. Or just punch him. ‘Abusive behaviour will not be tolerated,’ said the Bing-Bong Pixie. Telepathic, apparently.

At Dover, bad news. I’d missed the 2 p.m. sailing. The ferry itself wasn’t due to leave for 90 minutes, but I was prevented from joining the shuttle bus that conveys foot passengers to the ship. Embarking via the gangway is a privilege reserved for the crew these days, and a foot passenger, like me, becomes the property of the bus driver, whose timetable is random and inflexible. Deaf to my pleas, he left me on the docks as he motored away.