Day 22
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Day 22
And so, the last day begins with a very early get-up that is reminiscent of my early trips to my house in France.
The cases were packed last night and just require a slight top up with clothes worn yesterday, and a toiletry bag shoved tightly in before they're closed and locked.
Considering that I’ve been here for three weeks, the detritus of the room isn’t too overwhelming, and only consists of about twelve small bottles of water (too many to get through before I leave) a wooden knife and fork set that has served me well, and the remains of a large bottle of milk. I leave it and hope that somebody gets the best out of it.
I set off and the hour journey passes faster as I jostle my car with corporate blank-faces and Tesla toss-tank drivers who rush to be anonymous in their anonymous offices.
The car is dropped off easily, with no sign of the odious dragon I encountered when I picked the thing up, and then I'm on the courtesy coach and being dropped off at the entrance to the Delta/Virgin location.​
I have a few hours before life is injected into the check-in desks, and I occupy the time by cataloguing photos, labelling interview recordings, and starting to read the Jake Tapper book.
When everything finally comes to life it’s quick (not as much as Heathrow) and after customs and x-ray machines that seem archaic (definitely not Heathrow) I'm through (sighs of utter relief) before I’m in the new Virgin Lounge (small but more than adequate) and the Champagne is flowing as the location washes over me like a relaxing bubble bath, and the 80s sounds are more than music to my ears
For the first time in weeks I feel as if I’m not on duty, can do nothing but go with the Virgin flow and I use this time to just relax as the menu becomes my new best friend.
The first two Champagne’s wash over me like a gentle wave, and then I'm eating a very tasty burger and a satisfying vanilla ice cream because it's there. Well, when in Rome, or the Virgin Lounge, in this case...
Just to be sociable I indulge in a couple of glasses of Californian Red and a Christian Brothers Port (well any Port in a storm. Sorry about that).
In no time the flight has been called and I take my seat, touch all the buttons and switches, and make myself comfy whilst waiting for take-off, which is delayed by an hour due to the adverse weather over L.A.
and Vegas, and some idiot trying to smuggle a pet onboard. The pet I can understand, but adverse weather over L.A. and Vegas, somebody is having a laugh. Didn't Albert Hammond sing about it never raining in Southern California?
To settle my nerves they ply me with more glasses of giggles as I watch a really interesting documentary on Martin Parr, before scoffing some ravioli and greeting the approaching waves of tiredness by making my seat into a flat bed and then nodding off, which comes easier than I thought it might.
For the first time ever on a long-haul flight I'm woken by a stewardess who tells me that we're not too far from London, and if I'm lucky I might be able to just about fit in a large breakfast. Well why not?
