Get Back

 

There it was, the urban glory of WC1, and then the nightmare that is Heathrow's Terminal Three. This used to be vaguely congenial, I recall, but presents itself now as some kind of psychotic night club in a bus station sponsored by Hermes, Gucci and Tissot. 

Nightmare? Yes, but word to the wise, you can buy an airplane book at WH Smiths and a surprisingly cheap sandwich at the Boots pharmacy franchise for £1.50. I bought several, along with Nial Gaiman's Neverwhere and headed through the madding crowd to Gate 36.

The sandwiches were tasty, bizarrely, Neverwhere entertaining and the flight easy and fast, getting into DFW an hour early. What can I say, an exception which proved the rule. And then touchdown on the DFW runway and there we were, home. A taxi ride later I was back in the sylvan idyll of Winnetka Heights, Dallas, and a warm welcome from Ma LSP, "Champagne?" Most assuredly yes.

So that was that, a successful recce patrol across the Atlantic and back to Texas, safe and sound. Lessons learned? Don't lose your phone and bank card after carousing at the jolly old NatLib, do go to Mass at the excellent St. Peter's London Docks and while you're at it, spare a thought for Turner's Old Star 'round the corner from the church, well worth the visit.

In other news, CONUS is being attacked by balloons in a vicious act of asymmetrical warfare, the Scottish National Party (SNP) is in tranny turmoil and the dear old Church of England's gone even gayer than it was already, which is saying something.

Get back,

LSP