Titanic.

So, you know the story. The huge ship that couldn’t possibly sink hits something pointy in the dark and the upper classes put off allowing their true situation to dawn on them by opening drinks cabinets in the bar and scoffing at all the bleddy commotion in posh voices. Only after about an hour of this do they notice the drinks trolley skidding across the tipping floor.

So here I am in the Balearics. Lovely. Smashing break. Due to come home two days clear of the legendary first ever outing of the Momo:tempo Electro Pops Orchestra at the actually legendary Troubadour in London town. What, as you might ask, could go wrong.

An unpronouncable volcano in Iceland. That’s obviously what.

I have been wandering around in the balmy Palma afternoon, mentally clinking a G&T; and assuming I’d find some way home in plenty of time, of course.

Yes. I now realise I have 48 hours to get from an island in the Med to the south of England with no planes in the sky and all the trains and ferries between here and there booked. To say nothing of the hotels.

Right. Well, I have had to accept already that I will not be making it back to watch the epic local production of bemusing musical Titanic tomorrow night, which my mother has been musically slaving over for months. This is a great shame.

I have, however, decided what to do tonight, in our last civilised night before a weekend of lost horizons.

Don a suit and go out for dinner.

Follow my antics on Twitter tomorrow, I shall attempt to keep you posted on the Great Race-type shenanigans as I try to get to the gig.

Here goes.