A Twirl Too Far

It began, as many great catastrophes do, in Bournemouth Airport.

'I'm not sure I should come,' Thomas said, for no less than the fourth time, somewhere between WH Smith and Gate 5.

He'd already pulled the plug earlier that day, sending over a weary message that began with 'I'm sorry, I just don't think I'm physically up to coming away. I'm going back to bed' and ended with me solemnly nodding at my phone, like a soldier accepting a solo mission into the Armenian unknown, armed with nothing but a RyanAir boarding pass and questionable emotional stability. I'd already begun mourning the death of our joint itinerary, browsing bookings for one, and mentally preparing to eat pasta alone in Venice like a forgotten extra in a Channel 4 romcom, when all of a sudden, we were back on.

It was then that Chris, in all his handsomeness, came gallivanting through the streets of Saxonhurst like a knight late to a siege, mounting the Insignia with equal parts heroic urgency and unnecessary flourish (though most importantly, donning his sickly son.)

Thomas was to go to the ball after all.

At the airport, it became apparent that we were two men in the mental trenches, albeit for very different reasons. And with Thomas battling the chronic-fatigue fallout of a recent run-in with shingles on top of that, I was quietly wondering if this trip might still collapse before it even left the tarmac. With the man flakier than a Lidl croissant that's been left out overnight, I half expected him to dart away back to his bed if ever I turned my back for a second, leaving me to rejig my poorly arranged backpack over a £7.89 airport pint on my lonesome.

But against all odds, flight delays and medical advice, including the shop attendant refusing to give me my free compensatory Twirl for the delay, we waited out our boarding call. I climbed the steps into economy class, snackless and weary, while Thomas shuffled on further back, like a man who knew joy once, briefly, and in 2007.

Next stop: Venice.Read more