I almost became a Ryanair fan after our recent journey to London. Not that I’ve ever had anything against the budget airline per se, but as somebody who loves travel I’ve always found the experience of being transported like a package unappealing in the extreme and much prefer the longer but more interesting option of independent travel.

So when we were asked to deliver a friend’s car to the UK last weekend, my heart gave a little jump at the prospect. I love the long drive, the leisurely ferry crossing, the excitement of not knowing what lies around each corner. The plan was to leave early enough to be able to cruise up to the docks by the minor roads, avoiding the dull motorway and its extortionate tolls. Finding ourselves trapped behind a combine harvester for six miles within ten minutes of leaving home was unfortunate, as was the learner driver moving at .5 mph through the winding lanes of a small town, and between the two of them they cost us a 48 minute delay which forced us to abandon the scenic route for the monotonous motorway.

Still, we reached the docks in good time, boarded without problem, and then sat, and sat, and sat, watching the seas slopping very angrily against the harbour walls. After we had sat for at least half an hour, a loud announcement called for a doctor, nurse or anybody with the smallest modicum of medical knowledge to present themselves at reception with the speed of light. We sat some more whilst some unseen drama enacted itself, and finally put to sea more than an hour late. Having been up and on the move for 14 hours, I tried to sleep in one of the reclining chairs that does not recline sufficiently, but every 20 minutes a blaring announcement blurted out warnings and news:

The boutique is open

The cafeteria is open

The seas are very rough, the deck is off limits

The restaurant is open

The seas are very rough, the deck is off limits

The restaurant will be closing in 15 minutes

The cafeteria will stop serving meals in 15 minutes, but will continue to serve drinks

The gaming machines (had I mentioned the constant noise from the gaming machines?) are closing in five minutes. Any coins put in them after that time will be swallowed up for eternity.

We are approaching the docks. For our safety, we are asked to stay in our seats until told to do otherwise.

I have been up and about for 20 hours when we reach terra firma UK, and nothing will make me feel human except for a packet of greasy chips smothered in salt and vinegar. Both local chippies are closed, although all the Indian, Chinese, Thai, Kebab and Pizza houses are still open, but we press on to the next town where we find all their fish and chip emporia are also closed for the night. By the time we return to “our” little town, all the ethnic eateries have closed, too. We have nothing to eat except the remains of a bag of hazelnuts.

Next day, having delivered our friend’s car, we must now find our way to London, and our friend’s friend kindly volunteers to drive us there in his car. With him comes his adorable little Shih Tzu dog, Charlie, who sits beside me on the back seat. Occasionally he sits on my lap. That’s when I notice that Charlie has a sticky botty which he has wiped thoroughly on the one and only pair of jeans I have brought with me.

It is late afternoon in Tooting and I have nothing to wear on my lower body except jeans coated in doggie-do. There is no washing machine in the flat, and the launderette is half a mile away, and I am wearing only a T-shirt. TOH profers a pair of his trousers. They are slightly too large in the waist, and fractionally too short and look very odd with my sandals. Trying to look as insouciante as it is possible for a woman to look who is wearing her husband’s ill-fitting trousers, I scour the charity shops for a second pair of jeans that I can afford, and manage to find a pair of Per Una for £3. They are designed to stretch to accommodate a body two sizes larger than mine so they actually fit me quite well, leaving the stretch aspect unstretched. Even if I gain a couple of stone, they will still fit, and you can’t often say that, can you?

If we’d come via Ryanair, none of this would have happened.