Entries for this blog have been written on several continents, several modes of transport, and indeed across two decades of my life. I’ve sat in cars, on trains and planes, although not, as yet, on a boat.

Even if I keep it up for more decades to come, it seems likely that balancing myself and my laptop on a concrete block in the fume-filled belly of Gatwick Airport’s North Terminal, waiting for the coach to Oxford at 0045 on a Sunday, is forever going to be the low point.

So listen up, future David: you are too old and too fortunate to be putting up with this nonsense. Next time, find a way to either avoid Gatwick altogether (it might as well be on the moon for anyone living in Oxford) or stump the hell up for a taxi. With leather seats and a CD player, as the song says.

That is all.

(Dishonourable mention to easyJet: a 90 minute delay is too short for compensation, but plenty long enough to miss the original, slightly less grim, scheduled coach.)