I pride myself on my attention to detail. I should perhaps expend less effort in pride, and more in detail, considering the last 5 minutes at the airport on Saturday. Hearing that my plane was about to leave while I was separated by a train ride and a series of Everestesque escalators provokes a strange reaction. Namely, racing pulse, shaking hands, and fleeting, half-formed attempts at "If I miss this flight, how will I go about getting to London?" I did feel like a runner in a race being encouraged by bystanders as British Air employees urged me on to the gate as I awkwardly sprinted by. Twenty, fifteen seconds later and I am certain I would have been denied entrance. It felt like the scene of some cliche romantic comedy in which the heroine, embarking on her trip to EUROPE, begins what is certain to be a string of misadventures with one at the airport.
The goodbye was worth it, though.
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