I ordered my breakfast at East Midlands Airport at 7:30 AM. Everyone around me was drinking pints while Shakira and her honest hips were belting out over the PA system. They were all excited for their trip to Gran Canaria. I was going to Derry.

Ordering the food was a conundrum. You had to give them your table number, but I couldn’t save a table for myself without a bomb squad trying to disarm my rucksack. I’d already had a wobble on the way through security as I suddenly remembered having a vivid dream about handling some explosives. So I picked the table in the dingiest spot in the room so I could be sure that no one else would take it, dashed to the bar, ordered, and then dashed back again.

The breakfast arrived incredibly quickly. Too quickly. The mushroom looked like the mottled grey dome of a bald OAP, the hash browns were an insult to the entire potato race, and every bite of the egg reminded me that it came out of a chicken’s arsehole.

Someone left a single piece of gum on the table and it was all I could do to stop myself eating it just to get rid of the tangy taste of disappointment.