Heathrow airport on a Sunday afternoon was filled with the bustle of a busy city. People arriving and departing from all parts of the world. Clutching my hand luggage, passport, boarding card, laptop and kindle, I braved the security checks that form the barrier to the departure lounge. Placing everything I hold valuable into a couple of trays and watching them slide through the xray machine gave me pangs of separation while stepping through the metal detector made me feel like a guilty criminal even though I had nothing to hide and it’s only my mum who ever sets the alarm bells ringing with her bionic knee.
After what seemed like ages and keeping my purse firmly shut as I mooched around the shops, tannoys announced the gate for NZ38 to Auckland via Hong Kong. With one last quick charge of my netbook (very kind of Heathrow to supply free plug sockets, when they work) we boarded the flight.
Apart from the sick feeling in my stomach at take-off, I love seeing the land below in it’s doll size splendour and London at night with all its lights looked like a million jewels in a pirate’s treasure chest.
It’s now four thirty in the morning (until I adjust my watch to Hong Kong time, when it will be lunch time). I should be sleeping but other than a few snatched hours strung together since midnight thanks to a boring film, I’ve been awake.