Am on the fourth floor of a rather nice hotel in Stockholm, with free WiFi.
Am fully blond once more, ready for my close up in a couple of hours’ time.
At 8am, Gatwick was crowded and noisy and too hot for a big winter coat. But the staff were nice and helpful, getting me checked in at one of those automated kiosks so I didn’t have to queue. Sterling Airlines let me carry my guitar onto the plane, pleasingly enough.
Landing in Arlanda, I’m pleased to see little scatterings of snow on the runway. And my big coat now makes sense: it’s -2 degrees C.
Am stopped going through customs – my first time – but only to be asked where I’ve come from.
‘London… and nowhere else?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Thanks. You can go.’
I wonder why this makes all the difference? Still, my rubber glove day is postponed once more.
Another item ticked off the life To Do list: at the Arrivals gate I am met by a taxi driver carrying a sign with my name on.
Arrive at the hotel and am given an envelope containing the festival schedule, map, plus a formal invite to a buffet dinner tomorrow at the Palace of Tessin, being the Residence of the Governor of Stockholm County. Complete with coat of arms.
