Christmas Begins Now

Tags

A Child's Journey With Dickens, A Christmas Carol, Byers'Choice, Delta Airlines, Detroit DTW, Ebenezer Scrooge, Enterprise Car Rental, Field of Dreams, Heathrow Airport, Hilton Garden Inn, Kansas City, Mid Continent Public Library, The Shawshank Redemption, Toyota Venza

It is the start of November, and the leaves are falling from the trees, in England the days have been wet and squally, but with occasional crisp, fresh periods of crystal-clear sunlight creating a farewell finale to the beauty of Autumn before it is totally consumed by the dark winter months. Pumpkins were briefly displayed on doorsteps, including ours, and houses were decorated for Hallowe’en. The night of the 31st itself was busier on the streets of Abingdon than I had seen before and the atmosphere among the gruesomely attired trick or treaters was more akin to those we have witnessed in America films and TV shows.

All of this is an annual prelude to the first part of my annual American tour and on Tuesday 1 November I packed my cases ready to depart early in the morning of the 2nd. The build-up to my travel day had been quite stressful, as I had been unable to check in for my flight. The Delta airlines app insisted that I uploaded my Covid vaccination status, but when I did, the system refused to accept it, saying that the brand of vaccine was not approved in America and I would need to prove some alternative – which seemed odd, as I had travelled quite successfully only a month or so ago. There seemed no way to contact Delta, only endless pages of FAQs so I was not sure if I would actually be allowed to board a plane when I reached the airport.

On Wednesday morning I finished my packing and put on my new fleece jacket, branded for my tour emblazoned with the GD monogram and A Christmas Carol legend originally created for my website a few years ago. The corporate look was completed by a baseball cap and I was ready to tour!

My taxi arrived at the door at 6.45 and having said our farewells (which even after all these years never get any easier) I headed towards Heathrow airport’s terminal 3 building.

The traffic was heavy, and I was later arriving than I would have liked and to my dismay there was a long queue winding through the terminal leading to the bag drop. I found an official and she began to check me in. I held my breath as she asked to see my proof of vaccination, and after a cursory glance at the paperwork, she handed it back and sent me on my way – the first hurdle was cleared. There was still the matter of actually getting to the gate in time for the flight, but the Delta staff were on it, and called for anyone booked on the 9.40 flight to Detroit to come to the front. My bag was perilously close to the weight limit, but the agent at the desk caught sight of my fleece and asked about A Christmas Carol. I explained about my show, and we discussed the amazing production at The Old Vic theatre, which we had both seen last year. It was one of those lovely moments when the hustle and bustle of everyday life gave way to a moment of personal connection, although I was aware that my flight was starting to board, and I had yet to clear security.

I could build the tension even more by describing the taking off jacket and belt and watch, and having to wait to be patted down, as time ticked on, but actually the process passed quite calmly, and I arrived at the gate just as pre-boarding began. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to have any breakfast at the airport. I had eaten a single slice of toast at home to keep me going but was looking forward to a more substantial repast as I waited to board, but the heavy traffic and the long lines had scuppered that idea, so I would have to wait for the inflight service at 40.000 feet to satiate my hunger.

The flight was fairly busy, but I had an open seat next to me, which is always a treat, and I settled in for 7 hours across the Atlantic. As I sat, I noticed that the bags were being loaded just beneath my window and it was with a great sense of relief that I was able to witness my blue case being placed on the conveyor belt which entered the hold. It is always a reassuring thing to actually witness your bag being on the same vehicle as oneself.

My film choices on the flight included The Shawshank Redemption and Field of Dreams, neither of which I had seen for many years, and neither of which have lost their respective impacts (especially Shawshank). ‘Breakfast’ was a chicken pesto dish, followed by ice cream, which was surprisingly tasty. Beneath us were the icy waters of the North Atlantic, until we made landfall over Gander (‘Welcome to the Rock’) and headed up the St Lawrence over Quebec, Montreal, Ottawa and Toronto and on to Detroit.

Whilst in my seat I could glimpse the TV screen in the row ahead of me and on two occasions it sent memories and messages to me. The first was when it was in its screen saver mode and just displayed details of our flight: LHR-DTW, Heathrow to Detroit. It was the latter code that stirred the memories in me, for my acting career really started with a youth drama group in my home town of Tunbridge Wells, which was called Design Theatre Workshop, more commonly referred to as DTW. Almost everything I know about theatre I learned in my teenage years at DTW, and it is a time that I talk about at length in a new book about my theatrical life, which should be published in time for next year’s tour.

DTW didn’t exist purely to put on shows, it wasn’t just another AmDram group, but it encouraged its members to explore ways of becoming more creative.  The ‘workshop’ aspect saw us spend many evenings doing various improvisations and exercises, developing ways of creating our own theatre. I remember that one session was given over purely to feeling the strength of a gesture all the way through the arm to the very tip of the finger, every muscle tensed to create the desired effect and that is a technique that I use in my performance of A Christmas Carol today to bring strength and power to the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. I have much to thank DTW for, and it was lovely to wallow in a little nostalgia and think what those days have done for me.

The other subliminal message was less about the past but more about the future, for as we crossed the coast the flight map showed where various cities were in relation to us and for a fleeting moment the screen was filled with Portland and Boston – the journey taken by Charles Dickens and Kate Douglas Wiggin in 1868 and the subject of ‘A Child’s Journey With Dickens’ – which is to be my first performances of the 2022 tour. I took the hint and pulled out the script just to run over the lines to myself at 600 MPH. In the script Kate talks about the daily train to Portland dashing hither and thither at 12 miles an hour – such progress.

We arrived at Detroit in good time and the final hurdle of immigration was cleared easily. I retrieved my case, wheeled it down a corridor and rechecked it again, with no bother from any customs officers. Having once again divested myself of belt, watch jacket and shoes, I was allowed back into Detroit airport, having never actually left it, and I made my way to the gate where I would board a much smaller aeroplane to Kansas City, the first stop of the 2022 tour.

The second flight was completely full, so I had no luxury of an empty seat next to me, but once again I was sat over the hold hatch and therefore was again able to feel the relief that my bag was coming to KC too.

Kansas City is the venue that I have visited more often than any other, so the airport is a reassuringly familiar one, as yet untainted by the building programmes that render most airports indistinguishable from one another. The different terminals at Kansas City are a series of circular buildings looking rather like a moon base from a 1960s sci-fi show. I fetched my bags and boarded the shuttle bus to the car rental facility (I rather think I might have jumped the entire queue for the bus, just walking on when it arrived, but none of the other passengers said anything to me about it). The staff at the Enterprise Car Rental desk couldn’t have been more helpful, and actually walked me to my car, and introduced me to it – a very smart Toyota Venza hybrid SUV model. Having worked out how to switch the engine on and adjusted the mirrors I set off for the short drive to my Missouri home from home, the Hilton Garden Inn at Liberty.

It was about 6.30 by the time I got to my room, which to my English body was close to midnight, so I had an early supper at a nearby Olive Garden restaurant, before returning to my room for sleep

This year’s visit to Kansas City will be quite different from the past, but I will talk about that more tomorrow. For now, I have arrived, and the tour is about to begin.

A Dark and Difficult Day

Tags

Buckingham Palace, Heathrow Airport, King Charles III, Queen Elizabeth II

Having heard the news from England, I wasn’t going to write a blog post about my travels yesterday, somehow it didn’t seem right, but I have decided to go ahead, although it feels difficult to be light-hearted and entertaining today. But here is my account of Thursday, 8 September 2022:

The 2022 September tour is an extra trip and enables some of the venues that have asked me to perform something other than A Christmas Carol, to present non-seasonal events. Unfortunately some of the sponsors who had originally asked to be part of the tour have since backed out, meaning that there are a few gaps in the itinerary, but I may get time to run, possibly play some golf or be a bit of a tourist.

My day started early as I had to catch an 8am flight from Heathrow airport which meant a taxi pulling up outside our house at 5 o’clock in the morning. I had packed everything the day before, so having had a slice of toast and a cup of coffee, it was a case of saying farewell to Liz and disappearing into the darkness. The traffic at that time in the morning was very light and so I was at Heathrow in very very good time. The same was true of check-in and security and I was all cleared and ready to fly just after 6! I headed to a Pret a Manger where I had a little bowl of Bircher muesli topped with blueberries, some orange juice and a coffee, all of which passed the time until the screens showed that I should proceed to gate B31. The B gates at terminal 2 are in a separate building and getting to them means descending the longest escalator I have ever used, and about half way down I had a terrible sense of vertigo and had to cling to the rail for a moment and look anywhere but down, to control the sensations of dizziness which were making my head spin.

Continuing the theme of the day, boarding started soon after I arrived and it was calm, quick and efficient, meaning that we could push back from the gate ahead of schedule. I had a window seat with nobody next to me (thanks to continually checking the United Airlines website and switching my seat every time I noticed someone reserving the one next to mine), so I could spread out a little. I began to scroll through the huge amount of films on offer (so different now to those days when one film was shown on a single screen at the front of the cabin, as it was when I first toured). Out of a sense of nostalgia I chose Jaws, and settled back into my seat, reassured by the announcement that it was ‘highly unlikely’ that we would experience a water landing. As an early birthday present, to allow for this trip, Liz had bought me a set of noise-cancelling wireless headphones which did an amazing job of cosseting me in the world of Amity Island, and blocking out a rainy London.

It was odd to fly at that time of day, as usually I am used to lunch being brought round after an hour’s flying, but today it was breakfast – my third of the day (if I count the toast and coffee at home), and I tucked into pancakes topped with a hot fruit compote and an unnamed and unidentifiable white sauce, maybe cream or custard – I think not cheese, who knows?

A strange thing happened when the cabin attendant came to offer me beverages: I asked for an orange juice and a coffee, and she poured both and handed them to me (I grant, not too strange at the moment). Now, usually I am asked ‘cream and sugar?’ and I reply, ‘yes, thank you, one of each.’ But on this occasion she didn’t ask, so I said ‘may I have cream and coffee please?’ to whish she rather scolded me – ‘You didn’t ask for cream and sugar, so I just gave you coffee. I gave you what you asked for, I’m not a mind reader you know!’ I was slightly taken aback by this tirade, but tried to lighten the moment by replying. ‘Oh I am sure you are!’ but it was an odd moment, nonetheless .

Once Chief Brody and Matt Hooper had swum back to Amity, leaving the wreck of the Orca and the remains of Quint in the Atlantic Ocean, it was time to chose another film and this time I went for Daniel Day-Lewis’ Oscar winner performance as Abraham Lincoln. It is a long film, and I dozed bit, but it was truly a remarkable performance, and I had forgotten the quality of the supporting cast. By the time Lincoln was over I decided that rather than launching into another movie, I would investigate the TV programmes, and found a special recording of John Williams conducting the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra – and so my unintended theme (the films of Spielberg as scored by Williams) was settled. It was a magnificent concert and was nice just to let the music fill my ears for an hour or so.

For the final leg of the flight, over Nova Scotia and down the New England coast towards New York City I went full out with my theme and started to watch Close Encounters of the Third Kind and got three quarters of the way through as we made our soft, smooth landing on American soil. It was now that my day changed completely.

As my phone came back to life so the news came to me that doctors had serious concerns about the health of Queen Elizabeth II, and that all of the family were making their way to the Highlands of Scotland to be with her. That fact, and the fact that there was no mention of her being taken to hospital, could only mean one thing and a great sense of emptiness and depression descended over me, for the one constant of my entire life was about to be taken away. I just wanted to be at home with Liz, I didn’t want to be in America, I didn’t want to be preparing to do shows, I didn’t want to be wearing a smile and chatting to audience members, I wanted to be back in my home country being able to mourn with everyone else.

I spent the layover at Newark listening to the news coverage and it became increasingly obvious that all of the broadcasters were starting to follow carefully prepared protocols to bring the news of the Monarch’s death to the world. I boarded by onward flight to Jacksonville, Florida, and by the time I landed the news was confirmed. Strangely the line of news that most brought the reality of the situation to me was the mention of ‘King Charles III’: the succession occurs at the very moment of death, and a new era had begun.

There is little that I can add to the huge amount of tributes to Queen Elizabeth II that are being constantly played out over the news channels, but in 2012 I and Liz were fortunate enough to meet her. I am currently writing a new book about my life touring on the road, and in it I recall our time at Buckingham Palace:

‘In 2012 the nation celebrated the 200^th anniversary of Charles Dickens’ birth and the most prestigious event was a reception at Buckingham Palace hosted by Queen Elizabeth II and The Duke of Edinburgh.  Invitations were received by famous actors who have performed in adaptations of the novels, academics who have studied and written about Charles’ life, and members of the family: Liz and I were truly fortunate to have been included on the list.

On 14 February we drove our car through the great gates in front of the palace and parked in the courtyard before walking under the famous portico, up the small flight of steps and into the Queen’s official London residence.

We ascended the grand staircase and made our way into a gilded and packed reception room, in which there seemed to be celebrities at every corner.  We were given a glass of champagne and waiters circulated with plates of hors d’oeuvre, beautifully created to allow for single-bite ease of eating.  Somehow, seamlessly, we discovered ourselves in a long line and at the head of it we were presented to the Queen and the Duke, who shook our hands and said a few words, before moving on to the next guests.   If that wasn’t enough of a thrill, the members of the family were gathered up and taken to a smaller room, where we were granted a second and more private audience with the Queen, who spent ten minutes or so chatting with us all, demonstrating a remarkable memory as she recalled meeting my Uncle Peter many years previously, wistfully remembering that he had been ‘rather dishy’.  Peter had been a Royal Naval officer

Queen Elizabeth was quite amazing, the energy she demonstrated as she worked the room, making intelligent conversation with all of these literary and artistic folk, was remarkable.  And the next evening, or later in the week, she would be talking to nuclear physicists, or footballers, or politicians, and she would share the same beaming smile with them and display the same levels of knowledge of their work and would delight them as she had delighted us.’

That occasion was a truly memorable one, but my feelings of grief are not due to that evening, but to the sense that a major part of our reality has gone. Our parents lived through multiple changes of monarch, through both death and abdication, but for the multiple generations that have been born since 1952 we have known nothing other than the leadership and care of Queen Elizabeth II

Life will go on, and our King will serve the country well, but it will never be the same again.

When I arrived at my hotel on Jekyll Island in Georgia I noticed that the flags that flew on the spacious lawns had been lowered to half mast.

I don’t want to write more about my journey or my evening, or why I am in Georgia, that can wait until tomorrow. For now just to say ‘Rest in peace, your Majesty, and God save the King’

A Long Day At Heathrow

Tags

Baden-Baden, Charles Dickens, Frankfurt, Germany, Heathrow Airport, Monaco

Having returned from Suffolk on Friday, my UK tour turned into an international one on Tuesday as I left the house early in the morning to drive to Heathrow airport, where I was due to board an 11.30am flight to Frankfurt. I had been booked to appear on a German TV show which was to be recorded on Wednesday evening, so Tuesday would be a lovely relaxing day, arriving in Baden-Baden during the afternoon, checking into a rather elegant looking hotel, and having the rest of the day to myself to explore the town, maybe take a little swim and session in a sauna at the spa for which the town is so famous. Then I would have a dinner with a finely chilled glass of Rhein Wein, or maybe a Moselle. The only shadow over the day was that Liz wouldn’t be there to share it with me.

My drive to Heathrow was easy, for the roads were clear and fast moving. I drew into the car park just before 9 o’clock, and having made a note or the section and aisle were my Kadgar would rest, I walked to the shuttle bus stop where a van pulled up as I arrived. 10 minutes later I was walking into the departure lounge of Terminal 2. It was only 9.15 and I had promised myself a slap-up breakfast before ambling to the gate at 11. That was the plan.

Terminal 2 was a seething mass of humanity.

The news has been filled during the past week with stories of gridlocks at various ports (Dover being particularly hard hit), and this is due to many factors. Firstly the effect of Covid on the travel industry – naturally many workers lost their jobs, and now that restrictions have been lifted and people are travelling in numbers, the ports are woefully understaffed. Monday 31 May was also the start of a holiday week so a lot of families were travelling therefore putting extra stress on an underprepared system. And there is the ‘B’ word: Brexit. Although the official changes to the freedom of travel within Europe came into force over a year ago, the extra time and manpower of extra immigration and security checks and were hidden by the periods of lockdown and restricted travel. Suddenly in 2022 everyone is seemingly on the move again and quite simply the ports (most especially in my case Heathrow Terminal 2) cannot cope with the perfect storm that brought so many to one place.

I had checked in at home, but I still had to join the queue to drop my bag…….An hour. Now it was 10.15. As I stood in the line an official had passed by saying ‘Frankfurt, 10.30, anyone for Frankfurt 10.30 flight please come with me’. I wasnt really concentrating, but heard the word ‘Frankfurt’, so asked if that was the 11.30 flight, ‘no sir, 10.30’. The man behind me in the line laughed that I should have just gone without questioning the time, covering up the flight details with my thumb on the boarding card. Oh, how I wish I had! I edged and shuffled further forward, until at last I had a bag tag and could send my suitcase into the trusted hands of Lufthansa.

And now I joined the line for the pleasure of getting through security.

At the first look this didn’t seem to be so bad, for the entry to security was just behind the baggage drop, but I was soo disabused of any notion that I could swan through, for I was directed back on myself to join a queue that wound around the terminal, even at one point taking us out of the doors and into the open air, as if hundreds of people were creating a giant conga line – without the happy smiles and laughter.

The woefully inadequate staff were doing their best to contain the large number of people without causing any crushes or dangerous surges. At one point I asked if I could get to the front, as my flight was due to leave at 11.30 and instantly others joined in ‘Mine too’, ‘I am at 11.20.’, ‘I have to be at the gate at 11’, and so the problem was laid bare for all to see – no one was going anywhere fast. It was at 11.05 that I finally stood at the little electronic security gate which would allow me into the security area proper, and even then I was told to wait until the crowd in front had dispersed a little. At last the very patient lady who was controlling the line waved me forward with a smile. I scanned my boarding pass and was rewarded with a message on the screen: ‘Cannot process. Go to your airline for further assistance’ Now what? Well, apparently it was too late to be let through this particular gate – they don’t allow any access after a predetermined time before a flight is due to depart. I asked the lady what I could do, and she suggested that I go to the FastTrack line – that sounded good, so I left the gate, the gate that would allow me in, and found the FastTrack line….or at least found the end of the queue for the FastTrack line, which was as long and as static as the one I had minutes before reached the front of! More pleading with more operatives and I was sent to the ‘extra assistance’ line which is there to help large families with buggies and infirm folk in wheelchairs. Another period queuing, and the clock ticked on past my boarding time and up to departure time. As I continued to shuffle I passed a notice placed on behalf of the ITV television company which seemed to mock me with its words: ‘Raw TV are currently filming Heathrow: Britain’s Busiest Airport’ I bit my lip and did not give in to the tirade of foul language which was welling up inside.

I had a brief glimmer of hope when I received a text saying that my flight had been delayed, but it was only by 15 minutes. The inevitable came to pass and the plane left without me.

When I finally cleared security, the strangest sight met my eyes for Terminal 2 was deserted! Everyone must have burst through the human dam and ran to their gates as fast as they could, without stopping at restaurants, shops or seating. I took a moment to catch my breath and called the television company in Germany to update them on the situation and then tried to work out what to do next.

The Lufthansa help desk was my next port of call, and naturally there was nobody there – every other airline had clerks, sometimes two and in the case of EgyptAir even 3, helping their customers, but from Lufthansa there was nobody to be seen. After waiting for about 20 minutes someone appeared and without making any eye contact or smiling or acknowledging that I even existed, she spent an inordinately long period of time carefully wiping down the desk and keyboard and telephone handset. Having sanitized everything she then realised that the boarding card printer needed refilling with blanks, and disappeared for a while before returning with a handful of cardboard rectangles which she loaded…apparently the wrong way round for she took them out again and had another try. I tried to catch her eye and ask for help, but she wasn’t going to acknowledge me until she was quite ready. Even then there was no hint of a smile, or an apology, or any emotion whatever – I began to wonder if she was perhaps a (an?) holographic avatar of some kind.

When she finally switched on her engagement mode I explained what had happened and passed over my boarding card, and then without a word she disappeared into the back office. To be fair when she re-emerged she bore good tidings, informing me that I would be on the 6.30 pm flight to Frankfurt, which would arrive at 9pm My case, she assured me, would meet up with me there. And so I had a further 6 hours to wait in Terminal 2.

My delicious breakfast, which I had so been looking forward to, had now become a lunch and I sat in one of the restaurants writing this blog post, people watching and just letting time drift by. Having eaten I then went to the book shop and bought ‘A Short History of England’ which may help me in my new-found interest in the Magna Carta, then I found a seat and wrote a little more, read the start of the book and people-watched some more. 2pm became 3 and 3 ticked round to 4, at which point I glanced at the departures board and noticed that my new flight was slowly climbing the second page. I decided to add some excitement to my afternoon by waiting until it clicked onto page one, and then treat myself to a coffee and cake, which I duly did.

Through the afternoon I had noticed that all of the Frankfurt flights had departed from gate A23, so I took a wild gamble and went to sit there – I was alone, but sure enough at 5.45 the announcement flashed up that my flight would indeed depart from A23 and I supressed a smug smile – my first little success of the day.

Much to my delight I was in a priority boarding group so when the flight was ready to board I was able to saunter down the ramp and enjoy an almost deserted aeroplane for a few minutes, my day was definitely improving. The other passengers piled in and then we all sat in our seats as our departure time came and, of course, went. An announcement came from the captain that due to a shortage of baggage handlers the incoming passenger’s bags had yet to be unloaded, let alone ours stored, so another wait was in store. The clock ticked to 7. Eventually the captain came back on to announce that the hold doors were shut and he was confident that we would be able to depart very soon. A further wait. The Captain came back over the PA to inform us that they needed a ‘Headset Man’ to be present to control the start up of the engines and the push back from the gate. I have never heard of a Headset Man before, but apparently he is the aviation equivalent of a sea pilot. So, still we waited.

It wasn’t until 7.30pm, a full eight hours after I should have left Heathrow, that our Airbus began to roll. We took to the air quickly and were soon across the English Channel and over mainland Europe heading South. The flight was a short one and it seemed no time at all before the cabin pressure changed and we began our descent. We flew past Frankfurt’s high rise skyline made a great loop and gently descended to the runway where we touched down. As we taxied lots of passengers stood and gathered their bags, as they had connections to make. Despite the continued pleas of the purser and cabin crew they surged forward, as if that would speed the plane up, and by the time we finally stopped at the gate the aisle was full. I had no such need to hurry (I had become rather accustomed to waiting), so remained in my seat and waited until the initial rush and crush had subsided.

It was quiet in the terminal and I was quickly granted permission to enter the country for the purposes of appearing on a TV show, and made my way into the baggage reclaim hall where, you may be surprised to read, there was a delay. I assume that the same labour shortage is prevalent in Germany as has blighted Britain, but announcements informed us that our baggage would be delayed. For another hour did we wait! At one point the belt started and we all leapt to our feet and watched three bags come out, at which point everything felt silent again. The same happened again 2o minutes later and a few more passengers excitedly picked up the belongings and left, leaving five of us behind staring at a once more stationary conveyor belt. Finally, at 11.10pm the last bags came through, including (to my great surprise) mine! I say the last bags, but that is not quite true for one gentleman in a rather racy checked tweed jacket was left forlornly standing alone as the rest of us left.

Outside stood Ivan. My driver, with a little ipad saying ‘G Dickens’ I could have hugged him. He was due to meet me at 9.05 and now it was 11.15. He led me to his car – a lovely black, sleek Mercedes Benz and I took my seat in the back. Baden-Baden was a drive of about 90 minutes but we skimmed along the Autobahn at a constant speed of around 100 mph which at first was exciting and exhilarating, but which soon became routine and ordinary. Occasionally another car would WHOOSH past us as if we had been trundling along at 20, meaning they must have been touching 150 or more. It is fortunate that the Germans are careful and skilful drivers for the consequences of a collision caused by inattentiveness at those speeds are unthinkable.

At a little after 12.30 we pulled up outside the elegant Maison Messer, an extremely beautiful building redolent of the architecture in Monaco (the scene of the latest F1 Grand Prix the weekend before). I said my thanks to Ivan and in the exquisite lobby was checked in. In no time I was in my room, at last.

My plans for an afternoon at the spa were long gone, as were my dreams of an exquisite dinner, but I dined on a packet of cashew nuts from the mini bar and then fell into my bed , oh the bed – it was so good to be there and sleep came extremely quickly!

The Man in the the Mask

Tags

Boeing, Heathrow Airport, Home Alone, Mask wearing, Omaha

On Thursday 4th November, or November 4 for my American readers, I began a tour of America for the first time in two years. I must be honest and admit I am feeling slightly trepidatious about the undertaking, in that I am not sure of the wisdom of gathering lots of people in enclosed spaces and I am very aware that if I were to contract Covid during one of my performances the consequences would be most detrimental not only to me, but to other venues on my tour and back in the UK as well. So I will certainly be taking all of the precautions that I can take during my travels.

The process of flying actually began two days before I was due to get on board an aeroplane, as I had to take an official PCR test which, if negative, would earn me the necessary ‘Fit to Fly’ certificate. I duly attended a testing centre (actually a small suite in an Oxford hotel taken over by the testing company) and having answered lots of questions and given my passport details, I was invited to self-administered the test, which seemed a bit cheeky having paid £125 for the privilege! Within 24 hours the negative results came through and I knew that I was good to go.

As a household we all woke early on Thursday morning as I had booked a taxi for 7.30 to take me to Heathrow. In our living room my bags, which I had packed the night before, stood as if in anticipation of adventures ahead, along with a mask which would be my close companion over the next 22 hours, or so.

The cab arrived a little early so we all said our goodbyes. The driver introduced himself as Alex and I introduced myself as Gerald, and with those formalities completed he selected 1st gear and headed for Omaha (well, Heathrow Airport to be pedantic. Traffic was light at that hour and we made excellent time, so that I was in a relatively quiet Terminal 5 with plenty of time to spare. My check-in and passage through security was equally speedy, so I had plenty of time to kill before making my way to the gate. I had a coffee, bought some disposable masks which looked as if they wouldn’t be as hot as my fabric ones on a long flight, and generally mooched around until gate B37 was flashed up as being where British Airways flight 295 was waiting for me.

Since the beginning of the pandemic almost two years ago the USA has had a ban in place for passengers from the UK (you may have read my previous blog post about the special dispensation I needed to be allowed to fly). A few weeks ago the US government announced that they would be bringing that ban to an end, but the date they settled on was 8 November, meaning that my flight was very empty – mostly made up of passengers travelling on American passports. I had carefully selected a window seat, A41, but bizarrely it seems that on a Boeing 787 row 41 is the only row that does NOT have a window! It is not an exit row, and there doesn’t seem to be anything particularly special about row 41, it looks just like all the other rows but maybe someone in the design office at Boeing wanted an early lunch one day and forgot to sketch a window onto the blueprints before heading off to the cafeteria. Fortunately there was plenty of space on board and I could move forward a row from where I could enjoy the view of the beautifully swept up wing of the 787 Dreamliner.

After a slight delay as cargo was loaded we pushed back from the gate and we were soon soaring over Windsor Great Park and into the clouds before bursting out into the clear bright blue above. I watched movies, read magazines, played games on my phone and the hours gradually whiled away. Current regulations mean that masks have to be worn for the entire duration of the flight, except when eating or drinking, so the relief provided by beverage and food services was huge. Every time a cup of water was offered I grabbed at it, and lingered over it as if it were a fine Claret, relishing the freedom it gave me.

Eventually (after a couple of Robert Downey Junior Sherlock Holmes movies, an episode of Top Gear, a documentary about the Duke of Edinburg and an episode of The Durrells), we began our descent and breaking through the clouds got a wonderful view of the Chicago skyline. We were soon on the ground and taxiing to the gate bringing the first leg of my journey to a close. Of course there was no relief from the mask wearing, for it is also mandatory to wear one in all airport spaces, so on it stayed.

I joined the serpentine queue to clear immigration and for once didn’t mind that time was ticking inexorably onward, for my connecting flight to Omaha was not due to depart for another 5 hours or so – anything to pass the time was welcome, even if that meant standing in line wondering if I would actually be admitted to the country. Any fears I had were swiftly swept away as the agent stamped my passport and waved me on my way. After retrieving my large suitcase and then immediately entrusting it to the safety of American Airlines once more, I took the transit train to terminal 3 and made my way into the concourse (I’m fairly sure it was the one featured in Home Alone) and found a quite seat at an unused gate which would become my home for a few more masked hours.

By this time it was around 4.30, with my boarding due to commence at 8pm, I decided to remain in my seat until 6, when I would go and search out something to eat – that would neatly split the time in half, and give me another excuse to breathe some fresh air again. I read, I went through some lines, I played backgammon on my phone and I wrote the first part of this blog post until the relief of 1800 hours arrived. I found an Italian grill and ordered a Caesar Salad and a Lasagne, which I ate slowly, spending about an hour at the table. When I finally decided that I could remain there no longer I replaced my mask and went to the gate to await the call to board.

The domestic flight onto Omaha was busy and I slept through most of it, waking just in time to witness our final approach and landing at the Eppley Field airport (which always sounds more like a baseball ground to me.) As soon as my case appeared on the carrousel I ordered an Uber cab and by the time I had walked to the garage designated for such transportation, my car, driven by Peter, had arrived. And so my day ended as it had begun in a taxi. I had been travelling for about 22 hours and never have I been happier to get into my hotel room at The Element Hotel, which is so familiar to me after many years of staying there, and taking off that bloody mask!

I unpacked my costumes so that hopefully some of the creases could hang out overnight, for I was to be straight to work on Friday morning, with my lift due to arrive at 8.30. No rest for the wicked, as the saying goes, and the 2021 tour starts here.