That’s because I was far too busy with other things.

Well, actually there will be one but it will be a very sad one – a surreptitious one of the inside of a Refugee Centre in Brussels.

But at least, it doesn’t matter how sad it is, it’s there. And it’s more than anything that the UK is offering to any refugees any time soon.

When the alarm went off at 07:30 I was up and about already. And at 08:00 I was at the door of my guests across the way with a typical Belgian Sunday breakfast – croissants and koekjes. The local bakery around the corner did the business. No reason why my guests can’t profit from some of the local culture.

At 09:00 we hit the streets with these several suitcases of luggage – all that they could salvage from their the remains of their apartment after a week living in a cellar on the left bank of the Dneipr or whatever the river is called in Kiev.

Our train was the 09:33 to Oostende that took us to Brussels Midi and having been on a recce yesterday I went straight to the ticket office. Producing the passports of my guests was enough to obtain free passage to Paris but the bad news was that with it being the start of the Easter fortnight, the next train with any vacant seats was at 16:13.

No chance either of going via Charles de Gaulle Airport and then the RER to Paris.

Nothing for it but to sit and wait. At least the Refugee Centre was welcoming, with coffee on tap and food for those who needed it.

My guest took her children out in turn with the dog (did I say that they had brought a dog with them?) so that they could have some fresh air, prevent boredom and see the sights. Not that there are any sights worth seeing around the Gare du Midi of course. I stayed guard over all of the luggage and the luggage of just about every one of the four million Ukrainians who have fled the cruelty of an insane butcher.

Once I found out where the porcelain horse was, I could have a coffee. I’m working on the principle today of “if nothing goes in, nothing will want to come out”.

Eventually it was time for our train. And “packed” wasn’t the word. They had even sold the seats in the bar which was just as well because that was where we were sitting. In my perambulations up and down the train to stretch my leg I saw just one empty seat.

Fighting our way through the entry gates to the Metro was exciting too. They are very quick so unfamiliar people with heavy suitcases and a dog are apt to be caught out if they aren’t forewarned about how to go through them. As it was, the young girl found it quite stressful.

Mauling the baggage from the platform up the steps into the street was quite an adventure too and that about finished me off.

We had a tragedy too. I’d but a litre of iced tea in my computer bag having forgotten to first put it in a plastic bag and the container had leaked. There was about 20cl of iced tea swimming around in the bottom.

Too late to do anything about that now. We pushed on regardless to the station.

Give me a choice of 15 rounds with Mohammed Ali and 15 minutes with French bureaucracy and I’ll take Ali any time.

In Belgium (and apparently in Poland and Germany) it had been so simple. Present your passport at a guichet and your ticket is handed to you. But not in France.

“Go and see someone from the Red Cross” said the receptionist, pointing to someone in a red fluorescent tabard.

So off we went and we were led all the way across the station to the other side, down the side of the far platform and up some steps onto a balcony, miles away. Not a sign anywhere.

“Why didn’t you do the job properly and erect some camouflage netting over the steps?” I asked rather bitterly.

Trying to beat some sense into the officials up there was difficult. I knew the time of the train (19:50) and how the procedure worked but the receptionist insisted on giving a long-winded explanation that was totally superfluous and I blew my top. I’d had a trying day already and this just put the tin hat on it.

Having finally negotiated a laissez-passer for my guests I then had to walk all the way back to the ticket office for my own ticket. At least the guy there was very friendly and even asked if he might speak English to me. “I learnt English at school but I don’t have the chance to practice.”.

Back at the Refugee Centre (I ain’t ‘arf clocking up the miles) I blagged a cup of coffee and a bottle of water (even though I’m not a refugee but I felt that I’d earned them) and relaxed.

Our train duly came in so we wandered off back down to the platform and scrambled aboard. Luckily with it being Monday morning tomorrow and this train returning as the 05:55 for a 09:00 arrival when it will be packed, it was a two-trainset train so we had plenty of room to spread out.

And to my surprise, after being drenched in ice tea, my computer still worked.

As we were heading for home I typed up some notes and then had a listen to the dictaphone. I had been in a Motorway Service Station last night. Some little old man had come in. I don’t know what he had done but I heard a message over the tannoy in some foreign language but I didn’t understand which language it was but I understood it. It said that two security guards were needed to put this man outside. I went to tell this old man but as I reached him 2 security guards turned up. They were about to throw him out so I told them that he had the right to collect his possessions before he leaves. They didn’t believe this but of course it’s true so I insisted. They then called someone to throw me out too but it ended up in a brawl all the way across this service station.

Regular readers of this rubbish will recall that I went through a phase of violence in my dreams a while ago. It looks as if it’s come back again.

It’s three hours on the train from Paris to Granville but this one takes longer as it has two extra stops – at Versailles and Dreux. My guests had been a couple of days snatching snacks here and there when they could and they were too tired to even think about even a bag of chips last night.

And so I now understand the definition of a “moveable feast”. I was glad that I laid in those supplies that I’d purchased the other day. Not much of that will make it home.

Much to my surprise (and to everyone else’s too, I shouldn’t wonder) the train pulled in to Granville bang on time and I said goodbye to the nice young girl who had been sitting across the aisle from me.

And then the rest of us swarmed out of the train to be met by a welcoming committee – an event that was one of the most touching things that I have ever seen.

Of course by this time after all of this I was totally wasted and so I was offered a lift back home which was really kind. And having had nothing to eat since a slice or two of toast for breakfast (I don’t eat ham and cheese etc as regular readers of this rubbish will recall, I tucked into my lunchtime sandwiches – at 23:45.

Monday is usually the day when I rise at 06:00 and do my radio programmes. But if anyone thinks that I shall be up at that time they are mistaken. I shall sleep until I wake up – which means that the nurse will have an early morning blood call in the building so can he do my injection while he’s here?