Given the current state of sodding about vis-à-vis air travel, St. Martin's have agreed that spending five hours getting to the airport, queuing for security, going through security, hanging about, being searched again, sitting on a plane for half an hour then getting off at the other end, probably isn't a good idea. So instead I'm gettin' me a hire car!

Not a Nissan Cherry, but an AMC Pacer, which is even worse...

I've asked for something red and convertible-flavoured, so I'll probably end up with some sort of foosty old jalopy that sounds like a hairdryer on steroids. But if not, I'm livin' me the Thelma and Louise dream! Only without that driving off a cliff bit as I've got an event to do at eleven am and being trapped in a burning wreck at the bottom of a dirty big drop will probably put a downer on the whole thing.

So Stuart is to be trusted with half a ton of metal, stuffed with explosives! Well, petrol / gas -- depending on whether or not I've had the breakfast burrito -- but its all inflammatory. I'm going to have to scribble, 'RIGHT! THEY DRIVE ON THE RIGHT OVER HERE!!!'* on a Post-it note and stick it to the windscreen, just in case. And if that doesn't work, I'm already practicing my winsome eyelash fluttering. "What's that Officer? Doing a hundred and twenty going the wrong way on the interstate? Little old me? Surely there must be sommmmmmething you can do..." cue winsome fluttering.

What lonely highway patrolwoman/man/dog/gerbil could resist? Ah yes, I'm such a tease.

On the writing front things are... well, imagine you've just spent the last four weeks eating nothing but red meat and fried eggs. That's how it's going. I need the literary equivalent of syrup of figs. And it's not like I'm going to be able to work on the plane now, what with BA confiscating everything other than your passport and transparent plastic bag. It's going to be odd sitting on a plane with three to six hundred other people, in the nip because Security have confiscated everything else, all clutching our wee see-through baggies. *shudder*

Mind you, the safety briefing would be entertaining. "Exits are located here, here and here, and in case of emergency, socks and pants will fall from the compartment overhead. Please see to your own underwear before assisting others." Knowing my luck I'll get sat next to some big sweaty businessman called Brian who needs help with his leopard-skin thong. And once more: *shudder*

It also bodes less than well for my master plan to smuggle three tons of Frank's Hot Sauce in my hand luggage. Bloody al Qaeda, liquidizing bastards. I could keister a supply I suppose, but the risk of it bursting... it makes my eyes water, just thinking about it. Never mind a vindaloo the night before, that's going to BURN on the way out! I'd be scooting up and down the plane's aisle like a dog with worms, making strangled gargling noises, leaving a trail of flaming carpet behind. And somehow I don't think that's going to be good for my image.

Can you say, 'Deportation'?

* Freaks.