The Charles de Gaulle aeroport website encouragingly advised that travellers within Europe should allow 40 minutes before boarding. That did seem a bit thin, so we arrived at CDG at around 8.30 for our 9.40 flight. In fact we left our apartment at 7.45 and on paper it seemed plenty. We did not allow that our trial visit to CDG on Saturday was on an express train, while ours stopped diligently at every station. We had checked-in online so all that was needed was to print boarding passes at the auto checking stations that seem to be replacing people these days. We went through the laborious process, including passport information that I had already entered online, only to get a printed statement that told us we had to present our request to the check-in desk.

By this time the margin for delay was evaporating rapidly, but the check-in was fairly quick.

We rushed down to the next process which was the ominous sounding Border Force. Remember the good old days when it was simply called “Immigration”? Well the queue here was a long snake-like human organism stretching for hundreds of metres through the maze of control lines. It was clear that now, with at least 50 minutes in the queue, and only 20 minutes to flight departure, and still with security clearance to attend to, we were not going to make it. Jen took control, grabbed my arm and propelled us along the line past our startled and indignant fellow patrons.

I read once of a research study of queuing behaviour where someone would push in at the head of a queue waiting at the office photocopier. Everyone got very annoyed. However if a reason is provided, then the others will accommodate the pusher-in, even if the excuse is as lame as “excuse me, I need to copy this bit of paper.” So as I brushed past people I offered a very reasonable “excuse moi, we need to get to our airplane” and the way parted before us.

The next hurdle was security, which was quick enough, though I did not have time to reacquaint my trousers with my belt and we rushed on to our gate clutching bags and coats while desperately holding trousers in place. It was not the most dignified portrayal. The Air France people seemed totally unperturbed and we had to wait with others for our bus to take us about 10 kilometres to our aircraft. The rush seemed pretty pointless in the end, as we sat on the tarmac for 45 minutes, because the passenger list did not tally with the number of people on the plane. In the end I think they had to remove luggage of people who were probably still in the Border Control queue. They are probably still there as I write this on the return flight 12 hours later.

Funnily enough, although we left nearly an hour late, we somehow managed to arrive in Manchester almost on time. Manchester international must be one of the most confusing constructions on the planet. With three terminals and about 700 roundabouts to negotiate around them. Unlike our upbeat mood at getting to Manchester, the weather was exceedingly gloomy.

Eventually we were delivered to the hire car hub where in our good news for the day, the only car they could provide with GPS was an Audi A4. I have not driven an Audi since the days of my 1969 version of the Super 90, a very comfortable car but without the 21st century gizmos. The 2014 model is a wonderful car to drive and I think Jenny sensed my secret evaluation of its affordability.

We found Steve easily enough thanks to the wonderfully intuitive GPS. His landlady is a lovely old widow, the mother of the cricket club president. She was very kind in her remarks about Steven, using words such as “helpful” and “polite” and we had to have a little check that we were talking about the same person.

Jokes aside, Steven is in fact very polite and helpful and takes good care of his landlady. He took us down to his club grounds and we were surprised to discover that cricket is played in much wetter conditions than would ever be played in Australia. The wicket had deep pockmarks where the ball pitches, which would make it extraordinarily difficult to bat.

Steven then took us to church. Well, the Church Inn, a local pub that served great pub food. We drove into the city for Jen to meet her pal Angela at a lovely little cafe, The Tea Cup. Angela had trained up from Cambridge, and she and Jen had a great conversation. When I collected Jen an hour or so later, it was clear from the look of the table, that they drew not breath for a couple of hours – no evidence of crumbs and the tea looked untouched. Angela knitted a fabulous shawl for Jen.

I drove Steve back to his digs and we had a good yarn along the way; bade farewell to him and his landlady Gwynn, and returned to pick up Jen. At least I made a brave attempt. I must have made a turn too early than ordered by the Navman, as I got hopelessly lost, though “Barb”, my GPS voice, remained calm and patient and eventually, through a set of complicated routes and some very narrow lanes, got us back to the Tea Cup.

Barb got us back to the airport and I had to let go of the Audi. It was a fun car to drive. We had plenty of time, so were able to catch up on the day’s emails, Facebook, and of course the Budget brought down by Abbott and Hockey. It does not look the pain is being very equally shared, and there may be something of a credibility problem to be explained (no cuts to health, education, pensions and the ABC I think were the words of our dear leader!)

By the time we staggered up the steps at home it was midnight. For some reason, our little day trip had been beset with odd delays and diversions. I have relayed our delay at CDG on the way in the morning; on landing back at CDG in the evening we sat at the docking bay for 20 minutes waiting for someone to come and put the dock in place; another long queue at the Border Police because initially there was just a single officer manning the booths; the ticket machines at the railway would not take notes, and refused everyone’s credit cards; at our station our preferred exit was blocked off and the alternative exit took us miles out of our way. Interestingly, we came up on the Blvd St Germain at the restaurant where we dined the night before so the way home was familiar.

We again have to wonder about queue protocol. In the long, slow queue, several people pushed pass. I asked one of them “Monsieur, please?” And he replied, “I am sorry, I need to get home.” That sounded quite reasonable so we waved him through.

Eventually we got home too and fell into our comfortable bed. Paris awaits us today, again, but home beckons too.