Standing in the queue for the gate, staring at the black information board; a boy runs his fingers over the ticking digital clock next to our flight number. Every few seconds the digits change to show the date, 16th July. I realise I’m staring at nothing.

Can a mind stare? Mine does, it’s a blank sheet with occasional spikes of colour, odd shapes and disjointed memories, some of which may be dreams. Apparently this is what happens when I don’t sleep for two days, I'm no good at it.

It was the perfect honeymoon, tropical sun, amazing sites, the chance to really bathe in each other’s company and, of course, to read.

The flight back was 12 hours. A tube home to pick up smart clothes and then a wide- eyed, steering wheel-strangling drive back to the airport. Now we’re awaiting another economy cabin, cacophony of children and close encounter with people yet to discover the mysterious secret of deodorant.

So I'm slack-jawed in front of the screen, like a Doberman learning plumbing. Something starts to feel wrong. I'm looking at the numbers flip around the screen. A fingernail scratches across my brain as it involuntarily does some maths. A whisper from my starting-to-sicken stomach says, “You deserve this”. The numbers are starting to mean something.

The time is 5:56. One six. Add five, five, and six, you get 16. That’s two sixes. It's rare for my mind to fixate on numbers, knowing they make my head hurt I usually avoid them. Suddenly it seems I can't, but why are the two sixes important? They aren't. Then the screen switches from time to date. And suddenly those sixes mean more – today’s date, the 16th. One more six, 666, the number of the beast.

“That's dull coincidence.” the few shreds left of my rationale brain tell me. I half smile at my own foolishness and then the screen changes again. The flight number is AOY666. A cold shiver runs right through me and shimmers off across the polished floor.

A glimmer of reason remains, murmuring “Fluke...chance...ignore it”'. Further along the reflective black screen a demonic face stares back at me and mocks. Refocusing my bloodshot eyes I'm reminded exactly where our plane is going, Helsinki the capital of Finland. And as airports describe London as LON it's crystal clear, we're flying straight to HEL.

This is what happens. I've no one to blame but myself. These are the consequences, of entering his world. For all the short-term cheap thrills I thought could be laughed away, that I thought wouldn't affect me, these are my just deserts, for reading a Dan Brown book. This is our fate, mine and yours, this is his dark legacy.

You’ll count the steps to old buildings as you walk, to find the Masonic pterodactyl number. Bank notes become a part of a conspiracy, as you wonder why, when folded they show a picture of Michelangelo’s body with the head of Medusa. And one day, you’ll look in the same mirror you stare at every day and the lines on your face will be revealed as a map to sacred goblet, or something.

Worst of all, you’ll start to lie to yourself. You’ll promise you won’t read another. But you will, next time you’re on holiday. Yes you will. For he wills it. And so do I.

Why? Because the  RMT (Rail, Maritime and Transport Union) is sulking. They've asked for something and been told "no". In fact they've asked for a 5% pay rise and a promise of no redundancies over the coming year. In the current economic climate that's like a fat white kid, sitting in an Ethiopian dust bowl asking for a third slice of cake, while surround by living skeletons too weak to brush the diseased flies off their eyes.

Of course the problem for most people is how to get to work, so here are some suggestions:

Boris Jonson, who apparently, despite my repeatedly pinching and bitch-slapping myself, appears to be Mayor of London, has greatly increased the amount of public transport along the Thames. So I suggest everyone surf to work on the back of a nuclear submarine.

Harness the power of Bob Crow (Leader of the RMT) by strapping yourself to his back and making him fly you to work. Unless he isn't actually a crow, which I doubt. Otherwise why would he be called that?

There are going to be "escorts to lead cyclists across the capital". What a great idea.  Who better to help you get to work than a high-class courtesan, with a beautiful body, cold dead eyes and nothing on her mind but the money in your wallet, and a brief break from the beatings of her pimp?

Don't go to work, you don't like it anyway.

Him: “Come on darling! Where’s your sense of adventure?!”

Her: “I left it in the Volvo.”

Still though, I like the countryside, the cows say moo. But they mean yes.