It had been another tough week. My little newspaper was headlining again for all the wrong reasons with a global spotlight focused directly on the second floor of an office block in Wapping. Not for the first time had we found ourselves in this situation. I was well versed in the drill but it didn’t get any easier.
After a sleep-deprived week spent juggling heated executives, ranting emails and smug cardigan-wearing journalists, I was nearing the just shoot me now phase.
So when my delightful Travel Editor Trisha strolled into my office and presented me with a golf press trip to Bermuda, suddenly life didn’t seem quite that bad. Even if it was to a place where planes and ships mysteriously vanish without trace. And so it was, despite risk of my being misplaced over the North Atlantic Ocean, I took to my roomy leather lounger on flight BA2232, direct to paradise.
