Feed your snake

I awake somewhere over the Atlantic and listen to Hancock's Ashes as I breakfast on fruit and hideous coffee.

We land early and go through the Heathrow indignities: buses between terminals; winding queues for passports, boarding pass inspections, security photographs; additional carry-on x-rays, samples, searches.

I am eventually disgorged into the belly of T5 where I enjoy a very pleasant porridge at Itsu, before clambering onto a totally packed shuttle bound for Edinburgh. Across the aisle, our erstwhile premier, Gordon Brown, besuited and accompanied by wife and sons, crumples through the Saturday FT.

At Edinburgh we wait on the apron for steps and buses. Being in the back rows, the Browns and I are the last off the plane. While I cram into the bus, however, they have white Range Rover and police escort waiting at the foot of the steps to whisk them homewards.

I drop off a Jo Malone candle at Sarah's for her 50th and, finally, get back home. I feel done-in, but nothing that can't be sorted by a hot shower and a change of clothes.

Composts bins are erected, French onion soup is made (and consumed) and eventually, Arrival is watched.

At bedtime, my ablutions are greeted by a defrosting white rat on the bathroom sink. As Grace Slick might have remarked: "Remember what the white rat spake - feed your snake."