My eyes open and close spasmodically and eventually focus on the suspect at hand. I furiously grab my phone, which is blaring the most irritating alarm tone known to man. Quickly I silence the demon! I crack a yawn, suddenly realising the extent of my pounding headache. Throwing back the covers I leap out of bed before my mind has time to comprehend what has happened.

I grab a bite to eat, down some water and pop into the shower to shake off the remnants of the hangover. Once dried, I dress in my travel kilt; this is the most comfortable way to travel, helps to meet new folk and saves on luggage space as underwear becomes obsolete. Although knicker free, my 60-litre backpack bulges at the seams making it difficult to close. I manage to get the zip mostly shut before tying the beast down with a few straps. 

I then set about handing my house keys to my mum as well as my car keys to my sister, informing her to treat my Corsa well (advice I wish I was given). One final business matter requires my attention; making sure my hipflasks were filled to the brim. I carefully fill my smaller and battered flask with Macallan, 18-year-old (for special occasions) and my larger flask with Old Pulteney (my everyday sipping whisky), which I then tuck into my snowboarding bag for safe keeping.

With the chores out of the way, I begin to say goodbye to my family and pet cat, Simba who I inform I will miss the most. Despite his outward exterior, I can tell he will miss me too. All hugged out my sister gives me a lift down to the train station with the thirty kilos of misery I am hauling around. My sister and I have a final hug at the station before I see the blue golf disappear around the corner. Dragging my stuff down to the train carriage I manage to claim enough space near the doors as well as a backwards-facing seat. I watch Dundee disappear as the train rides into a deep orange sunset towards the irradiated Kingdom of Fife.

The train grinds to a stop at Haymarket station. I dive off and search for my cousin Euan who I spot waiting for me near the front entrance, head down flipping through his phone. He offers to carry something before we make our way to Ryrie's, the closest pub to the station. I park my gear against the colourful ringing of a puggy machine before sitting at a wobbly wooden table. My cousin gets the pints in, and we have a quick hour catch-up discussing: the trip to come as well as politics and family matters. Even though he is currently going through a shit-storm, I appreciate the time he takes to see me off and is one of many reasons I hold him in high regard.

With the flight time closely approaching we finish our pints and I catch the Edinburgh tram for the first time. As I board the tightly packed carriage my backpack squishes against the back wall and a middle-aged Dutchman pipes up "Hey, watch your bags!" I am barely on the tram and have yet to pass anyone. Be it, the fact he pre-emptively accused me of being a rude bugger with no regard for personal space or the few pints beforehand I grab the handle next to him and stare at him in silence. I immediately found myself regretting this decision, not because of the confrontation but because my bags were fucking heavy. With what little back, neck and shoulder muscles I have, they all have to chip in to try and stay upright. However, it was no use they were definitely crumbling, and I was starting to noticeably lean further and further back. My stubbornness kept me there, uncomfortable, sweating and continually shifting my position until a glorious angel burst through the carriage doors instructing me to put my bags away and present my ticket…. I did what the ticket collector told me, noticing the Dutchman crack a smile as I was stumbling away.

By the time I arrive at the airport it is getting close to 6 pm, the time I said I'd meet Gavin. I take long strides towards the check-in desks, trying to manage my weighty bags, my snowboard bouncing off my leg with each step. Fortunately, I am the first one there. I check the board for our desk number before trying to get hold of Gavin.

Gav lets me know they are just parking so he should be here in about five minutes. I flip through Facebook, killing time. A message pops up on the screen five minutes later that reads they are in the building and making their way towards departures. I keep my eyes peeled, scanning up and down the hallways to see them coming but as time marches on, there is nothing. 

I call Gav, "Hey man – where are you?" I ask, "We are in the downstairs bit near the departures" he replies. I look down towards the Costa section and then up towards the entrance…. Nothing. "I'm where the main entrance used to be" I responded, this was followed by several murmurs in the background. Eventually, he asks "in Glasgow, right?"…. I burst into astonished laughter… "Edinburgh mate" I reply trying to catch my breath. I heard Gavin mutter the words "shit" before putting down the phone. I immediately take my phone, searching for the previous days conversation…. and yup, there it is, clear as day:

"Gavin: That Glasgow or Edinburgh?

 Me: Edinburgh

 Gavin: Danke"

I spend the next few moments telling our close friends before I get another phone call from Gavin. He lets me know how much of an arse he has made of this, and I tell him he can no longer slag me off about the Prague map reading incident. He lets me know he will buy new tickets and informs me that there is only fifteen minutes difference between our arrival times. After he hangs up, I message the word "GATWICK" twice, so there are no further cock-ups. Looks like I will be making this leg of the journey alone, at least with the spare seat I will have extra legroom!