I feed the cat. Lazy Sunday morning. Do a load of washing (the black-wash, consisting of socks, underwear, and two black fleeces); put yesterday’s (a shirt wash), now dry, away. Eat the strangely sweet breakfast cereal that’s been in the cupboard for the last six months. Have toast. Get dressed. Go to the airport.

I’m off to Geneva today, the world’s biggest airport lounge, for a bit of fun. Normally my trips are business-related – this one isn’t. I’ve been kindly given a ticket for the Euro 2008 match between the Czech Republic and Turkey; so I’ve dug in my wallet for a little trip to Geneva, and a potentially really crappy cheap airport hotel experience, before flying back at 7am tomorrow, to be at my desk by eight thirty. It’s a good game, too – whoever wins will go forward to the second round or the quarter final or whatever it is; and it’s also the last of three in the Geneva stadium.

Swiss International Airlines turned out to be almost the cheapest when I booked this a few weeks ago; there was one slightly cheaper flight but it was from Heathrow at 6.30, requiring a £35 taxi, thus negating any price benefit. Instead, I’m making my way to London City Airport for a lunchtime flight.

Get to the Victoria line. Discover there’s no Victoria line. Get to the DLR. Discover there’s no DLR. This is a Sunday, and they’re doing line work on the Victoria for the new trains, and station work on the DLR for longer trains. Forced onto a bus at Canning Town. Regaled by some loud tinny rap music from a mobile phone somewhere, even though I’m plugged into my iPod.

Through the airport, waving my magic online checkin piece of paper. Get stopped at the other side of security by a woman who says she has to check whether my hairgel is actually hairgel and not some kind of explosive. It’s a random check apparently. She puts some details about me onto a computer for some reason, swabs the hair gel, decides that it’s all okay. And now it’s on a computer database that I use hairgel. Good job I don’t carry KY jelly with me. Whatever that is.

Ten minutes to kill, so wander into the bookshop to find something to read. Decide on a Ben Elton (I know, I know). Wait to pay as woman behind cash till whines to co-worker that Sundays are so busy they’re like weekdays now, and “they” had better realise that we’re understaffed and overbusy. Wait politely while understaffed and overbusy woman finishes whining to her friend, then turns her attention onto the only person in the queue. I suspect “they” know their staffing levels are about right.

Board plane. Swiss is the ‘airline for all fans’, as it proudly proclaims on the side of the plane. Inside is a special duty-free selection of a football game, a football, and two replica planes which look a little more footbally than normal. I wonder who buys replica model planes? I’m sitting next to two Turkish supporters, and an eager and quite excited japanese man.

Captain comes on. Apologises, but says we’ll be twenty minutes late to takeoff. Nobody tuts. He says we’ll still land on time. On cue, stewardess walks down aisle offering Swiss chocolate to everyone to apologise (even though it’s just air congestion). But it’s not the normal Swiss slabs of chocolate – oh no, today we get chocolate footballs! Japanese man smiles a lot. I do too. This is good. Might buy a replica plane after all to say thank you.

Food and drink comes round, still free to everyone, unusually. Eager japanese man asks for orange-juice whilst simultaneously miming an orange. A mime of an orange. Nice.

Memo to Swiss: I liked the sandwich. Nice Swiss salami. Tasty gherkin pickle thing. Pleasant bread roll. Your beer, though: it might be brewed by Heineken Switzerland AG, but Heineken is really from Amsterdam, not Switzerland. Are there really no Swiss beers to serve?

I decline a potential purchase of a replica plane in a small beer-related huff.

Landing at Geneva airport was smooth as silk. I walk, in a moderately circuitous route, to the hotel. It is chock full of Turkey supporters. This hotel normally costs 99CHF to stay in (it’s currently 150CHF); it’s more basic than basic, but clean, and that’s all that matters. Much rather this than some of the grimy hotels I stayed in while I was fulltime on Media UK (yes, £35 a night is achievable in London, and no, you don’t want to). I was given a free travel ticket by the hotel – turns out it’s something Geneva city are doing, and I’m very grateful for it.

I use it to catch a bus into the centre of town. Then, given I’ve time to kill, I walk from the centre of town to the stadium, along the “fan’s walk”. It’s a 45 minute mostly-well-signed walk, and goes through an area called the ‘fanzone’ (think big telly screens and lots of stalls selling beer). I lack the peculiar Swiss money, and therefore can’t. Instead, I acquire a blister on the sole of my foot. Bah.

I see a lot of rather run-down Geneva. Without the modern miracle of beige-coloured concrete, this city would be huge tracts of wasteland. Walk past dowdy video stores (honest, who hires videos these days?), and one street which smells strangely of laundry until I walk past a laundrette, with a big fan pushing sweet laundry smell out of the shop with a surprising intensity.

Arrive at our seats just before kickoff (after drinking some of UEFA’s beer) and the roar from the Turkish crowd is infectious and very loud. Decide to support Turkey, which has nothing to do with the Turkish man next to me, but more to do with the large number of Turkish supporters I’ve seen today.

The Czechs score. And then, after a half-time interval consisting of TV ads on the in-stadium video screens and a live man on the touchline saying something nobody listens to, they score again. This is bad news. Everyone writes off Turkey. The Czechs certainly do. The two Turkish men in front of me are on their feet, loudly decrying the official’s decisions. One claps his hands to his head so hard it makes me wince.

But plucky Turkey score. And then, in the dying minutes of the game, they score again. 2-2. I remark that it’ll be decided by penalty shootouts, but as I do so, just seconds after the previous goal, they score for a third time. The Turks go wild. The Czechs go silent. And then, as the fulltime whistle goes, the Czechs just leave.

The Turkish man, who has not acknowledged my presence throughout the game, nudges me, tips his hat to me, and grins a big grin. I do too.

Back to the hotel. Set the alarm to wake me at the UK equivalent of 4am. Great. Then set another alarm.

Wake up with the unaccustomed sound of the Blackberry’s alarm. Unpleasant thing. Manage to turn it off. Relax. Instantly fall back to sleep. Wake up one minute later with the iPhone alarm, vibrating the shelf where it’s charging. Struggle out of bed, and snooze it.

Thirty minutes later, I’m walking through a dark Geneva on the way to the airport. Walk past a bus stop, and notice there’s a bus in two minutes. Take that instead – thank you, City of Geneva, for your free public transport.

Queue in Geneva airport. Useful fact: the tannoy is the first five notes of “How much is that doggie in the window”. I may have mentioned this before. The thing that’s keeping me awake is singing “Geee in the window” in my head. Want to buy a t-shirt. Fail miserably: the sensible Genevans don’t open tat shops at 6am.

Get on plane. Full of suits, all going to the City. Sit next to quite attractive woman banker, in suit and white shirt. Realise how different our jobs are. She deals with money, important things. I deal with media, unimportant things in the scheme of things. She turns down the chocolate muffin. And the chocolate football.

Finish Ben Elton book (‘Blind Faith’) as we taxi into the gate at London City. It’s his version of 1984 I think. George Orwell it ain’t. But it’s quite good nonetheless.

It’s only five to eight. Just a tube ride to work. Buy a coffee from the airport. Manage to spill some of it on the shirt I’m wearing which is supposed to be a smart shirt for a smart do I’m going to at lunchtime (with Ian Hislop no less). Not only brown shoes with a grey suit, a faux-pas on a dreadful scale brought on my by freshly-hurty feet, but now a blotchy coffee-stained shirt. Oh dear. What will they think?

Looking forward to a tube ride home to greet the unhappy cat. I’ve spent too long away from him this week. He’s due some serious strokles. Oooh. Wuz he a puddycat? Wuz he? Did he be needin’ strokles? Did he? Good cat.

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