I hadn’t been on a plane since the return from Boston with the children back in October. Ooh memories of the horror.
It was thus a feeling of carefree abandon that swept through Charles de Gaulle Terminal 2F.
I specify 2F because if you miss it, there’s a seemingly eternal runway which prevents you from getting back there.
We didn’t overshoot because the taxi driver knew what he was doing.
The trip started sadly. I said goodbye to just awaken daughters who clasped me as if there were no tomorrow.
These are entirely my sentiments any time I got near an aircraft. But I had to appear brave.
Even the boy added his dramatic tuppence worth – coming to the door and standing on his tiptoes - to proffer a pucker.
All three offspring pressed their noses against the kitchen window to wave me farewell as I traversed the courtyard to the front door onto the street.
The taxi was waiting outside and Jean – whom I hailed en route to the World Cup in Germany in 2006 – was there to help me with my cases.
Thirty-five minutes later we were at the airport. I phoned home to say I was there. The girls were impressed. Usually the trip to CDG is an obstacle course of incompetent taxi firms and RER trains.
The flight to Amsterdam took off late but it arrived in ample time for an hour long wait in a queue to board the flight to Accra.
It too departed late - an hour late. When we landed, the stewardess announced over the intercom: “Welcome to Accra.”
There was a round of applause.
And the man next to me said: “Thank God.”
Ghana...... a land of mindreaders.