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Diary of a millionaire international sports writer Ian Russell. There's nothing I enjoy more than a top-class driving trial, but the horse teams world championships came, for me at least, at a tricky point in the season. Arriving at Stansted airport at five a. All five days had been written up for an excruciatingly tight deadline. I was square eyed and my head ached with information overload. As a result, my travel plans were neither complete nor very clever. I would fly to Budapest, get a train to Kecskemet wherever that was , and er?
The journey began well, however, with a short flirt. Badly unshaven and felling rather groggy, I handed my papers to a pretty uniformed blonde girl at check-in. Business or pleasure?? When I explained my mission, she smiled and said -? Ah, you are an international sports writer!? My grogginess vanished at once. I practically danced into the departure lounge. International Sports Writer. So that's what I was! I don? I spent the entire flight designing new business cards in my head, but came back to earth at Budapest with a bit of a bump.
Queuing to get off the plane, a baby was sick on my shoe. The uniformed lady at passport control looked like a Samurai warrior and made no flattering comments at all. However, when I changed a wad of pounds into Hungarian cash at the airport Bureau, they gave me several million Forints, and as I've never had a million anything before, I felt a whole lot better. I usually get a bit confused abroad, and waste whole hours in pointless attempts at getting organised.
This trip was no exception. I spent my first afternoon in Hungary blundering round the airport collecting maps, bussing into town, buying spicy things to eat in the street, and getting lost. On the plus side, I shed a reasonable amount of weight dragging luggage to the wrong places.