Self-loathing is a quality I try not to admit into my daily routine, but yesterday – like the inevitable attack on The Wall by the White Walkers – it came at me with a vengeance. In case you didn’t get that reference, I’m incredibly excited about Game of Thrones Season 6.

When mishaps occur it’s odd that you don’t get the slightest inkling that they’re coming. Whether it’s smashing your head on the piste of a ski slope or crashing your car into some poor fellow’s wooden fence, there isn’t a warning. No bright flashing lights in your vision or anxious voices in your head to make you aware of the impending misfortune that’s about to occur. There’s no screeching music or dramatic weather systems causing you to fear what’s about to happen. Nothing.

Okay so it’s possible I’m being dramatic. Don’t worry, I didn’t die. I didn’t fall off another cliff or break a limb. The horrible truth is I missed my flight.

I didn’t just miss my flight, though. I avoided it like it was the Black Death. . . or Donald Trump.

My plan was straight forward: I take a train. I get off said train and wait for the next train to take me to the airport and at the appropriate time and place I get on the new train and arrive at my destination with a whole three hours to spare.

Unfortunately for me it turns out French train timetables are misleading and cruel. Whereas in England they tell you where the train is going, in France they tell you where they come from. Why? I’ve got no idea. Quite possibly they’re showing off. Anyway, when I thought I got on the second train to Geneva, it in fact went hundreds of kilometres in the opposite direction and as checking where the train is going in a foreign country is for sensible people, I waited until the train should have been arriving at the airport to discover that I was an absolute idiot.

Not only was I going to miss my flight by two hours (best case scenario) due to a serious lack of trains at that time, but I was also going to miss spending hours with a gorgeous blonde seasonnaire. I’d started chatting to her on the platform and she happened to be catching the same flight back to London Heathrow later that day, if I hadn’t had to leave her to get my luggage then this would never had happened.

Still, why would you enjoy talking to a beautiful girl for a few hours when you can avoid her by getting on the wrong train and spending 12 hours alone in an airport in Lyon instead. I’m assuming she wasn’t in my class of morons, managed to get the right train and had a pleasant time unencumbered by my efforts to brighten her journey home.

Moral of the story? Don’t be an arse. And also check where trains are going.

If you know a gorgeous goggle-tanned Sally from Surrey, then please let me know.