Pass the tissues. We're stranded

I was sitting in the school canteen, eating my rice stirfry and chatting to my colleague about our rascally students. Suddenly, the school secretary appeared at my elbow.
"Gingerbread Lady," she said solemnly, "I have some bad news. Your husband just rang to stay that your flight has been cancelled because of the volcano in Iceland."
I winked at her. "Oh, really?" I smirked. "A volcano?" Wink, wink.
You see, this morning I called into the secretaries to check that everything was okay for my day off tomorrow and they'd been envying me because of my impending trip home. They got details of the location, my Brand New Posh Dress, my Impossibly High But Incredibly Sexy shoes, etc and it was generally agreed that I was, indeed, a lucky duck. So when she turned up to tell me that our flight'd been cancelled due to this - well, let's face it - preposterous excuse, I thought she was pulling my leg.

But she wasn't
Woe is me. Or, better said, woe is us.
We're stuck fast in Gingerbread Germany. If it were to help in any way, I'd cry. Or smash something. Or scream. But unfortunately none of the afore-mentioned helps disperse volcanic ash. Luckily, we found out about it before we set off for the airport in Frankfurt, so however bad it is, it could have been much, much worse. At least tonight we'll be sleeping in our own beds and not on a plastic chair in an airport terminal.

But I'm missing the Gingerbread Brother's wedding and my little pile of Gummibears sits forlornly on the dresser, next to my Brand New Posh Dress, which is hanging in its plastic wrap on the wardrobe. The sight of them is so pathetic, I can't even bear to look.

I'm off to scoff a bar of milk chocolate and feel sorry for myself.