We're off to Limoges, AM and I, aboard a Ryanair special. Not that there's anything special about it, bedecked as it is in navy blue and a slightly jarring shade of daffodil yellow. Since boarding, we've been assaulted by repeated inducements to part with our cash. At the moment it's charity scratch cards, earlier is was smoke free nicotine sticks for those who cannot last the hour and a quarter flight time, then it was the food and drinks trolley. Can't wait for the roll-out of the minor cosmetic surgery and liposuction cart.

We passed through Speke a while ago, or "John Lennon" airport as its tired and slightly foreboding travel hub is now named. It's not a place I choose to travel from willingly and my only previous encounter with it saw the side window of every other car put through on the row in which I was parked - fortunately, mine escaped attention. With that in mind, the trip today was by taxi.

Today's reading is courtesy of Philip K. Dick and "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep". The crew here are almost certainly made up of escaped 'Andys'. Roy Baty at the controls up front and rolling out nicotine sticks was Flis herself, minus the flick-flaks - a bit tight in a 737-800 for those, she looks plastic enough though. Wonder if the other passengers are real? Time to die...

Down below I can see France passing us by. AM is dozing gently, head propped on her right hand and leaning against the pillar next to the window. It look OK there weather-wise. Couldn't possibly be much worse than the North-West has been over the last week. Rain pelted by wind into a splattery wet mush of torrential downpour. AM looks contented at the moment, though she's not really settled herself to this trip. Can't see too much going awry with it.

They're calling for landing prep now, so I'll not be able to write too much more, as they'll want the table stowing away. As I look out of the window, we tilt away starboard and the aircraft slowly sinks, wing first, into the clouds. Behind us, one of the babies on board is having a right good squawk - no doubt having its ears pummelled by the change in air pressure. As we drop through the cloud, the cabin is buffeted by the outside air and another child joins in the chorus. Table now away, writing is now rather more awkward. Not long to go though.

Below the cloud base, things settle a touch, but not the child. To our right there's a pretty little lake bathed in late summer sunshine, cottages and houses clinging to its banks. Roy Baty has just called the rest of the 'Andys' to strap in. Hope I & G are waiting for us. 500ft to go, looks like a model village down there. Then we hit tarmac. Is Limoges the world's most quaint airport? All it needs is Windy Miller and an Oliver Postgate voice over and it would surely be complete. Have they heard of mowers here? More notes from a small world...