I was supposed to write this column in my office – sat at my desk typing Carrie Bradshaw-style, staring out the window to ask: “Is it time we ditched the broiling Canary Wharf brat race and headed for our own version of the Hamptons?” before leaving for Gatwick airport.
But something went wrong. All week I’ve been hurtling between work and social events, telling myself if I could just hang on till Thursday at 8.40pm I’ll be on that flight out of here.
Problem is my flight isn’t at 8.40pm. I’m booked on the 7.10pm. Past Me really needs to take a minute to double check her tickets. Past Me is a colossal pillock.
Cue my partner (who did glance at our tickets) suddenly imploding, and a frantic cross-London scramble of wheelie cases, passports, and taxis.
Breathless, tearful and whimpering, all I needed was a five foot sadist Terminator in a netball tabard to scream at me to run faster and I could have been back in cross country at school. We levered onto a packed train to Gatwick – 6.15pm.
Twitter told us we wouldn’t make our flight, but there was another at 7.40pm which we might just make.
Swallowing the cost, we booked tickets and downloaded our boarding passes to our phones. Technology is great.
But the train shuddered to a halt. We’re not going to make it. The holiday will be ruined. My partner will never speak to me again.
But with a sweaty jolt the train sprung into life.
Now all we have to do is take the shuttle to the other terminal, negotiate security, run up escalators, sprint along moving walkways, and find the gate.
I was supposed to write this column in my office. Thank God I’m writing it on the plane.
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