An eight timezone grumble

We’re in Canada. Just waiting to leave Vancouver Airport on the Whistler Express, I can safely say that I’m in a bad mood. Considering the broad spectrum of bad moods in which I’ve found myself over the years—and there’s been a few—I can safely say that this stands proud atop all of them. It started a clear 18 hours before we took off, and shows no immediate signs of abating. Not even a 10 hour flight cheered me up. So, as overly long introductions go, what I’m trying to say is that by no means is this next passage written in anything approaching good humour. If that bothers you, I don’t care. Being a grumpy old sod affords me that luxury.

The trip for me started a bit earlier than it did for the other boys. Living on the opposite side of town from Heathrow, I stayed at Dec’s trendy West London flat on the Friday night. I bade farewell to my pad on the Essex Riviera with a spring in my step, and won’t be back until the best part of another two weeks have passed. Now that we’re stop-starting our way through the Vancouver traffic, this trip is starting to feel a bit real. Whatever happens in the next 11 days, it certainly promises to be a memorable trip. I’m glad to be away from England, I’m glad to be on holiday, I’m glad to be snowboarding again, and I’m glad to be here with the same bunch of close friends who made the last trip such an unforgettable experience. Yet this burgeoning contentedness finds itself overwhelmed by the rampant bad mood from which I’m trying—and failing—to extract myself. It’s a losing battle for now, but hopefully—maybe tomorrow—things will get better.

This is so frustrating. As much as I try to settle in to the journey, to enjoy watching a new city roll backward past me, to take in the spectacular scenery, and to sit back in eager anticipation of this trip to which I’ve looked forward so much, all I currently have on my mind is that I’m in a terrible mood. The trip last year allowed much time for pleasant introspection, contemplation, and enjoyment of the moment. Right now, I fear any second in which I may unwittingly slip into a moment of introspection, as behind that door lays Ant’s Bad Place. I suppose the best approach for now is to write about something a bit more upbeat; to take my mind off of the godawful funk in which I find myself mired.

Bugger. Can’t think of anything. As such, I’ll—mercifully, perhaps—end this post for now, and try to be more positive next time.

Grumble.