Many months ago the band I’m in was invited to play a gig at a literary festival in Greece. The date slotted nicely into our international tour schedule, between Brighton and Plymouth. But it butted up against my already booked holiday; I would have to fly home, spend 36 hours repacking and then fly straight to Greece. Mind you, I’m not complaining.
“It sounds like you’re complaining,” my wife says as we negotiate the duty free chicane at Gatwick. It is 4.30am, and the airport is rammed.
