Feeding ducks in the park...

Sunday 25th February - the last of the long weekends


It seems rather unlikely I admit. Yet as we enjoyed our champagne brunch in the west village, I looked upon our return to London as no bad thing. Indeed, our jaunt around some of the finest places on the planet reinforced my high opinion of that dirty grey stain over the River Thames*.

The day was likely to be more successful than most; it was a Sunday, it was New York and the only thing we had to do was pick up a flight home later that evening. It was a day destined to be spent sitting, eating and drinking. After a several hours of Mimosas and some incredible Eggs Benedict, we retired to an old fashion bar to watch our remaining hours slip away through the bottom of our glasses. Perfect.

Still, it seems that such good times must often be followed by a grotty 6 hour flight. And this flight was not improved by a snowstorm on the runway and a 4 hour delay (although it meant that some cool Japanese robots arrived to blast snow off the wings). The journey would have been considerably worse had it not been for the BA flight crew who were professional and very British, in a good way.

We landed the next morning and passing through the bowels of Heathrow, we emerged, slightly dazed, into a sunny english springtime. It was not the worst of times, just the end of something really cool.


* As I write this, sitting in south London and with that great gift of hindsight, I realise that I might have been mistaken.