I lock my room and catch a bus as a grey wind blows the bright days away. I see blossoms and patches of daffodils, white and yellow, but I'm already thinking of late summer afternoons. I arrived at Heathrow six months ago, to the day. And today I'm flying back.
They keep us a shopping mall, cleverly disguised as a departure lounge. My flight has been rebooked, so I'm looking forward to 6 hours of spending pleasure. Or maybe not. I recognize a small toy black taxi my grandmother brought me years ago - I will probably do the same souvenir shopping here one day. Postcards of the Queen, Paddington on a key chain, tea in telephone booths. Whisky, all "fine", but in such volumes that I doubt their claim of "rare".
The place that really draws my attention is Caviar House & Prunier. I'm not prepared to pay the £100 for a tin of budget Beluga from Kazakhstan, but they do have slivers of divine salmon available for tasting. I'm waiting for the shift to change, then I'll go again. They also have foie gras, Gentleman's Relish, expensive Stilton and tiny bottles of vodka, but I'll leave that for another day. When I'm employed again. And rich of course.
Passenger Yusuf flying to Khartoum via Beirut should go to his gate now.