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When it first appeared, it was like a tiny pinprick on the horizon, winking back at me. I squinted, trying to work out exactly what it was, but it was no use. We were being buffeted by the waves and besides, it was too far away.

Eight hours earlier the shipping agent had collected me from my hotel, driven me to the port and pointed to the boat tied up alongside. It was one of several water taxis, about the size of a small single decker bus, that brought men to the ships anchored in the river or out in the bay. This one had a flat open deck with a red, target like, circle painted on it.

I chose a seat by a window, strapped myself in and waited. In a rare moment of calm, I watched as the Wouri river sneaked by, winding its way, past the city, deep into the heart of Cameroon. I didn’t know it then but that was to be the last restful moment I would have until I arrived back in Dublin two weeks later.

Ten minutes passed. The light on the horizon was bigger, only now I could see that it wasn’t a light at all; it was a gas flare, stretching out from the top of an enormous tower.

I was headed for a sea tug, out of sight, somewhere deep in the ocean. Its radar was broken. Without it, they were blind, leaving them at the mercy of abandoned wells and ruthless pirates. The year was 1982, Ireland was in the grip of a recession and I was just 23 years of age. This was my first real job. I knew the theory, having graduated just 12 months earlier, but I was under no illusions about my abilities. I was the least capable in the office.

‘That may be so’, said my boss, without a hint of sarcasm, ‘but you’re also the only one available.’

The boat slowed. I could now feel the heat of the flare. The first time you see an oil rig up close is something you’ll never forget. The metal lattice towers rise hundreds of feet above the ocean surface and sink a thousand feet below. The concrete platform is 10 times higher than a two-story house. A helipad sits to one side, a crane in the centre, and a cluster of metal buildings surrounds the drill bit, the reason for the very existence of this monster.

The water swirled about the pylons, almost like it was keen to warn us off. We were nearly under the platform now. In perfect symmetry the boat stopped and the crane swung directly overhead. A cable running through its outstretched arm lowered a hefty triangular rope cage.

If somebody had told me then that it was called a Personnel Transfer Basket, I might have guessed what was coming next.  As it hit the deck, in the very centre of the red circle, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I never was much of a fan of Valentine’s Day.

We’re told to celebrate the one you love. Buy her some overpriced chocolates, an overnight stay in a seriously expensive hotel, or if you really love her, a round trip to the moon! (I just made that last one up but with a little adjustment I think I might be onto something. What if it was Mars instead of the moon and instead of a round trip, a one way ticket? Darling, of course, I don’t mean you. I know you don’t eat chocolates).

Despite being fully aware that Valentine’s Day is nothing more than an effort to boost sales at the end of long winter, I, along with every other hot blooded male, still feel shamed into buying ‘something’. One Valentines Day, some years ago, I left it very late and learnt that something is not the same as anything.

Driving home from work I realised that my brain was trying to interrupt the banal radio show I was listening to. (There must be some unseen force that attracts radio presenters who say nothing worthwhile and listeners who just want to fill their heads with nonsense to avoid having to think through their dreary day). I don’t know how the brain does it but in the midst of a discussion on why we should encourage our obese children to get outside more – rather than stay at home eating chocolates – I was presented with the image of a halo bedecked man with flowers in one hand and a box of Angel Delight in the other. At that very moment I also saw the solution to my problem. A garage with large buckets of pre wrapped flowers out front.

I really couldn’t tell you whether it was the wilting flowers, the cling film like wrapping paper, or the giveaway price tag I never spotted but, let’s just say, that she wasn’t impressed. Good job the compost bin had enough room for my gift and too little for me.

The area surrounding a boarding gate is always an interesting place. Gate 421 Terminal 2 at Dublin airport is no different. It’s easy to spot the Irish teenager. They stand out for all manner of reasons. Oh, I don’t mean the usual pale skin, red hair and thick ankles. (You didn’t know about the thick ankles? Believe me it’s true).  No, what makes this generation emerge from the pack is the wide girth, black trainers (runners if you’re Irish) and an uncanny ability to perform in front of a urinal while simultaneously reading, and often responding to, every Tweet and Post known to man. (For obvious reasons I can’t verify what happens in the Ladies. Please don’t Tweet and tell me).

Sadly, flying has a habit of confirming just how weak willed I really am. Despite swearing on the Bible multiple times that I wouldn’t spend the whole flight watching movies, I did. I sat for eleven hours watching a tiny screen that bounces up and down in rhythm to the rather large passenger seated in front of me who couldn’t seem to settle and was determined that I accompany him on his roller coaster ride. I watched all six episodes of Derry Girls (a comedy about teenagers growing up in Northern Ireland during the Troubles), Kim Swims (a story about a Kiwi – a woman not the fruit – with a quest to swim alongside Great Whites and not get eaten) and Sully (a tale about what happened when Capt. Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger landed an airliner on the Hudson river saving all 155 passengers and crew). That last one was probably not the best choice. My fellow passengers didn’t appreciate me screaming ‘Brace Positions Everyone’ as the landing gear was lowered on our approach to Las Vegas. (Okay, I didn’t call out, but it was real inside my head).

While it’s impossible to overstate just how much air travel has developed since Orville and Wilbur Wright flew a few hundred feet above a beach in North Carolina more than a century ago some things still bother me. For instance, I still resent being stuffed in a seat alongside an overweight American who would occasionally raise a buttock to aim her silent farts in my direction. (Yes Madam, I knew it was you). That said I did have some sympathy with her argument to close the window blind from the get go. A pilot once shared with me that the reason we’re told to make sure it’s open during take-off and landing is that in case of an accident we won’t be disorientated, and we’ll know which way is up. It might be just me, but I would have thought if I was suspended upside down, held only by a seat belt, I wouldn’t need to look out the window to confirm it.

“Darling do you have another knob of butter? Ah look, there’s some on the ceiling with Harry and Mildred and that lovely air hostess who just handed us our meal.”

This was my 10^th time travelling to Las Vegas. I’ve never enjoyed it. Spending tens of millions to bring close on 20,000 people across the world to the capital of narcissism might sound like the Holy Grail for a multinational hi-tech company or even one of Trump’s campaign rallies, but for someone like me, who has more passion for trees than technology and is liberal left rather than hard right, that outlay on a trip to Las Vegas is equivalent to an annual trip to the dentist with root canal treatment guaranteed. I don’t gamble, I abhor casino’s and when the seedy side of the nightlife surfaces, as it inevitably does, I high tail it back to my near impossible to regulate air-conditioned sweat box of a bedroom and watch another movie.

I always plan the next day before I go to bed. When I make an arrangement to meet a friend, I turn up early – so early, in fact, that I often sit and wait outside for fear of embarrassment. I constantly make lists and take an unhealthy pleasure in that whooshing sound my computer makes when I tick off another item. And yet, despite all that, I can still get stressed.

It usually happens when something unexpected smashes into my routine, knocking me off guard or forcing me to make a quick decision. It’s like I’ve just being dropped into the ring with Katie Taylor. Take yesterday, for example. You’d be forgiven for thinking that a short trip down the road for a routine visit to the dentist should be no bother for someone as well organised as I am, but then, you haven’t met my wife…

‘You should cycle down,’ she said.

A short jab as she limbers up.

I knew I should cycle but the bicycle was in the back shed and the garden is like a bog so getting it out is a bit of a rigmarole. It involves taking off my shoes, putting on rubber boots and digging it out from under a myriad of garden implements laid on top of it. I then have to wheel it through the garden and the garage, take off the boots and lace back up my shoes again. Time was tight, but, even more than order, I like the peaceful life, so I did it.

‘It’s getting dark,’ she said. ‘You should take a reflector vest with you.’

A left hook that I didn’t see coming.

I stared at her.

‘There’s one in the garage on the shelf.’

Another jab.

At least that didn’t involve taking off my shoes and putting the boots back on. I went outside and found the vest.

‘You’ll need lights,’ she said. ‘When you’re coming home it will be pitch dark.’

An uppercut.

This woman has the full range of shots.

I stopped and closed my eyes, perhaps subconsciously imagining how it would be in the darkness.

‘They’re in the kitchen drawer,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if they are charged.’

Two more jabs.

I swore a little too loudly.

‘You can’t lecture the kids about needing to be seen on their bikes if you don’t light up,’ she said.

That was straight to the solar plexus.

I doubled over as I searched the drawer for working lights.

Lying back in the comfortable dentist’s chair, two things crossed my mind: sometimes it is the things that we least expect to cause us stress are the very ones that do and the next time you meet Katie Taylor, ignore the taunting. Take the car.

 

 

Last week, at a meeting in London, I was given a large iced cake to mark my retirement. The plan was to share it with colleagues at the end of the meeting. Unfortunately, due to a late finish, that didn’t happen and I was left with the option of either donating it to someone else, which was unlikely given it was decorated with several rather embarrassing photographs of me, or taking it back on the flight to Dublin the following morning. While I was mulling this over a colleague found the large box the cake arrived in and after carefully repackaging it, reassured me that getting it home ‘would be no trouble.’

Next morning, my edible companion and I stood in front of the BA desk in London City Airport.

‘Excuse me, do you think I could take this on as hand luggage’, I said, holding up the rather large cardboard box. ‘I’m a bit concerned that it might not fit in the overhead luggage compartment.’

‘What is it sir?’

‘It’s a cake… to celebrate my retirement.’

‘You can take it on if it fits in that’, he said pointing to the contraption used to check the size of a case.

Sadly, it didn’t. It sat on top. I thought of taking it out of the box and cutting it into bite sized chunks, however, a small queue was now starting to form behind me and I’m not sure any of my fellow passengers would have been happy to wait in line as I performed surgery on the contents of my baggage.

‘Could I check it in?,’ I said.

After consulting my booking, he said: ‘You haven’t paid for checked in luggage sir. If you’d like to check it in now it will cost £65.’

‘£65’, I said. ‘At that rate I’d prefer you took it home and ate it.’

At this point the man’s supervisor lent in close to remind him that the charge went up the previous day and a late baggage check was now £75.
I began to panic and wondered if perhaps I could just abandon it. Under pressure the best ruse I could come up with was to pay a visit to the Gents and leave it behind in one of the cubicles but then, I thought, this is London and as we’re frequently reminded, unclaimed luggage will be destroyed if left unattended. I had visions of the bomb squad arriving and sponge cake flying in all directions. Besides, I could hardly deny that I was the owner seeing that there were multiple photographs of me stuck to the top.

‘Just take it up to Security,’ the BA man said, as his supervisor walked away. ‘If you get through there then ask at the Boarding Gate. They might check it in for free.’

I clambered up the stairs, into the Security area and bundled everything I had into the trays. All the usual stuff and one rather large cream sponge cake. I watched as the whole lot was swallowed up by the security scanner.

Out came my PC, case and jacket but no sign of out sized friend. Moments later one of the security team emerged holding up a large battered, and all too familiar looking, box.
Unamused, she asked, ‘What’s this?’

‘A cake, a retirement present,’ I said.

‘It got stuck in our scanner,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ I said, as I grabbed it, perhaps a little quicker than I should from a security agent, and sprinted down to the Boarding Gate and straight up to the young BA attendant standing there.

‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Your colleague downstairs suggested you might be able to check this in for me’
.
‘What is it?,’ he said.

Weary but determined not to be thwarted at this stage I told my story for the third time. He smiled, as if he knew I was coming and then, to my complete surprise, passed the baton on.

‘You don’t want to check that in. Take it on as hand luggage. Ask the cabin staff if they would let you put it on the seat next to you.’

I walked out and up the steps to the plane where I explained my case to yet another BA staff member.

Smiling he said: ‘Just pop it down in front of the seat beside you. We’re not all that busy this morning.’

Later that day, my family and I manged to do what I should have done 24 hours earlier – eat the damn thing… and very nice it was too.