Last weekend, there being no dancing, I flew off to the island of Jersey to see a friend. It was easy. A short drive to the local airport that I still call Staverton but nowadays prefers to call itself "Gloucestershire M5". The plane has real propellers and just 20 seats - all by a window. We walk across the tarmac and up a proper set of steps into the fuselage like they do on old newsreel footage of politicians. The captain himself does the safety drill then says "Now, the interesting stuff - Sweeties!" and hands round boiled sweets. I look at the wrapper wondering if this largesse is sponsored by a local dentist but no, it's Lloyds TSB. Odd. It's disconcerting to fly over a beach and half an hour later to walk on it but its got to be done. Jersey beaches are surprisingly big for a small island - that is, until the tide comes in and then they don't exist at all. I started wondering where thousands of summer visitors moved to twice a day when the sea r...