London bound

“How are we getting to the airport?”

“Uber. I’m not getting a bus with my broken hand. And luggage.”

Economical Dolores would usually insist on the bus. Thank god for my broken bone. I’m such a lazy git. And it’s a great excuse for taking a taxi.

The airport isn’t too busy. I get some extra attention at security on account of my plaster cast. I have to wait while they bring up the specialist machines. Clogging up one of the lanes. That will please everyone behind me.

Passport control, however, is a doddle. But it’s a bit weird that they want to see my boarding pass.

There’s some noise coming from airside. What the hell is going on?

Some sort of demonstration, apparently. Against frequent flying. How the hell did they get airside? There are swarms of marechaussee officers all around them. This is new.

“Do you think they bought tickets to get airside, Dolores?”

“That would seem counterproductive.”

We trail along to the lounge. Where they’re checking everyone at the foot of the escalator. Presumably, on account of the demonstrators.

Sitting behind my whiskies, I think about how the demonstrators got airside.

“They probably just went through security and passport control.”

“Who?”

“The demonstrators.”

“Are you still on about them?”

“You don’t have to show a boarding card at either.”

“I’m not really interested, Ronald.”

“That’s why they wanted to see my boarding pass.”

“Fascinating. Do you want some food?”

“Yes, please.”

Having stuff done for me is quite nice. But also a chilling vision of my life in 15 years’ time. I’d rather not be reminded of that.

Thai red beef curry with potato thing.

Thai red beef curry is how they describe it. More like a beef stew, really. No hint of spice. It’s OK, if not as advertised. I have some potato thing with it. Dolores has bread and stuff.

Dolores gets herself a glass of cava. And a whisky for me.

A sandwich of cheese and cucumber with tomatoes.

There’s no mention of boarding on the screen. But we head off to the gate 45 minutes before departure time. Just as well. They’re already boarding our group when we get there.

“Is this all we get?” Dolores says looking at her snack and small bottle of water in disappointment.

“On my TAP flight to Lisbon we were given nothing. You had to pay for everything.”

“That’s rubbish.”

“Just the way it is, Dolores.”

It’s a bit of a walk at Heatthrow. Which I really appreciate. Not much of a queue for passport control. It’s a while before our bags pop out, though. There’s always some sort of delay at airports. Such frustrating places to be.

Next part of the journey is a piece of piss. Just long-winded. It takes more than an hour for our tube to get to Russell Square. Pretty crowded, most of the way. We have seats, though. An advantage of getting on at the end of the line.

Once we’re checked in, it’s supermarket time. Essential stuff. Milk, bread, cheese, cider, whisky. The cheapest whisky in the shop. A full litre. Will that be enough for three nights?

“Fancy a drink in the pub on the way back, Ronald?”

“OK.” If you insist. I wouldn’t want to be impolite. I don’t say the last bitt out loud. I know what’s good for me.

We have to walk past the Marquis Cornwallis. So that’s where we head. Except all the tables are either occupied or reserved. Bum. We go to the Friend at Hand, instead. Where we can find seats.

Inside the Friend at Hand.

Lots of reserved tables and Christmas parties here, too. Quite a healthy mix of ages. Not all oldie people as, in the Midlands earlier this year.

“What’s a nice Bitter?” Dolores asks.

“They have Landlord. That’s pretty good. I’ll have a pint, too.”

It’s rather nice. So nice, I have another. Dolores goes for the house Bitter. Despite my warnings.\

“How is it?” I ask.

"OK. There’s a funny taste at the end.”

“I did warn you.”

A pint of Timothy Taylor Landlord.

But that’s it. We leave it at that and head back to our hotel. Where we eat sandwiches and drink whisky. Well, I do the latter. Dolores has a can of cider with her sarnies.

Hearing music, we look out of the window. A group of Santas is roller skating by.

“You can’t get much more Christmassy than that, Dolores.”

“I suppose not.”

We watch a bit of TV. But don’t stay up very late. We’re both a bit knacked.

Whisky is my slumber mate.



The Marquis Cornwallis
31 Marchmont St,
London WC1N 1AP.
https://www.themarquiscornwalliswc1.co.uk/


Friend at Hand
2-4 Herbrand St,
London WC1N 1HX.
https://www.greeneking.co.uk/pubs/greater-london/friend-at-hand