I'm saving this for my memoirs...

So folks, I'm back in Lyon. A town where the snow is currently falling in a very determined fashion, and shows no signs of backing down. As a gal from the Chi, a city that is (un)lucky enough to experience both extreme winters and extreme summers, I'm OH so used to the idea of snow, and in a big way. I forget sometimes that most of Western Europe generally isn't. This is why I have found it so surprising and infuriating to have the streets so slippy, I mean, do these people not have salt?! The fact of the matter is they do, but in limited quantities, far too limited for the amount of snow that has attacked the region.

This whole 'being ill equipped to deal with the weather' thing became evident to me on my connecting flight from London to Lyon, where I spent 5 hours in a plane, not moving, because we were waiting to be de-iced. Not that the process of de-icing took longer than 30 minutes, but the amount of planes that had to undergo this procedure meant that there was a long wait. Because of this unforeseen delay, I arrived back in Lyon seven hours late, and there was no way to get back into the city. The best idea seemed just to hang out in the airport overnight until I could catch a bus into town, so that's what I did.

Doing as many 'long-haul flights' as I do (as I calculate it I do 6 transatlantic flights a year) one of the questions I get after arriving back home from the airport is "were you able to sleep on the plane?" My response is always the same: "No, I can't sleep on planes." While not strictly true– I would say on an 8 hour flight I average about 45 minutes of kip– nothing shows how little sleep I got on this particular journey back than the spontaneous writing sesh I did while hanging around in the airport at 3 in the morning. Allow me to present you with an excerpt.

There's nothing like a gin and tonic at 27,000 feet to make you forget your troubles...

I feel like the stench from my foot sweat is seeping through my leather boots. I daren't raise my arms above the normal height for fear that my BO might cause passersby to faint. Maybe I'll go to the bathroom in a minute and take what Adam adorably calls a 'whore shower'. It's 2.41 am in Lyon, hour 22 of travel.

This is by no means unfamiliar to me. I do a lot of transatlantic travelling; a lot of waiting around. I'm used to getting NO sleep over 24 hours, having makeup smeared all over my face, smelling a bit, and having people look at me and debating whether or not I just fell out of a tree. I've never spent the night in an airport though, this one's new.

"Don't go anywhere too quiet!" Shouted my dad down the phone when I explained the situation. To be honest, when you're in a tiny French airport at 2 in the morning, everywhere's quiet. My positioning of myself and all my crap was based purely on convenience: I sat myself in the only place where I could find an available electricity socket. It also happened to be between the two lavvys, so people are always coming and going. I was joined not too shortly after by a man in an orange fleece, clearly on a similar quest as I was. He's quiet for the most part, except for the little bit of singing he does along to his music before remembering he's out in public.

I'm finding it hard to concentrate on anything. The announcements here are beyond ridiculous. Well, in English, anyway. "CuhztUmeRRRs are wemahnded not to leave their luhgehj unAHtenDED." Oh, how I love stereotypes.

A Chinese man just ran through the hallway with the utmost urgency. I don't know why– there are no flights right now, and the fact that the bus isn't running is the whole reason I'm still here.

I wasn't able to write too much more before it became nonsensical. Don't worry, y'all, I've gotten a lot more sleep and am now almost back on track.

Much love. x