Landed in London an eternity ago. Flying across the Atlantic expanse was a little more painful than it needed to be. Instead of being sat next to lovely-accented English chicks who would chat me up for the 6 hour flight, I got to sit next to two Brit Brat Brothers who fought over armrests, created mysterious wetness on the seat and floor, and didn't bother even looking for their shoes until everyone but me and them had deplaned. Their mother was about as useless as she could be, but she was a row behind us keeping the third brother very well behaved.
The Blonde had an aisle seat right next to the stewardess cabin (lucky!), but had a crying baby next to her. I explained the previous M*A*S*H* post to her before the flight, but I'm not sure if that crossed her mind at all.
Grand plans of spending the twelve-hour London layover seeing the city were squashed by my jetlag and lack of sleep next to the BBB's. Instead, we hunted high and low in the Heathrow lounges for uncomfortable seats without armrests in between, so I could lay down and take a nap. Three 1-hour naps later, and I'm coming out of the painful post-flight phase and drifting back into the bored-airport phase.
The next leg should run about 11 hours, but this time I sit next to The Blonde. That will definitely be more pleasant than another BBB experience, but maybe not as relaxing as say a surprise First-Class upgrade. We'll be flying out of England, across The Channel, on D-Day so I'm been humming "Over There" to myself. Apropos for both historically today, and as a theme of this two-week World Cup tour.
Heathrow is a mixed bag. Maybe because I'm not looking to pick up anything from Burberry or Tiffany & Co. The people-watching is interesting though. Flying in, the only club stadium I could identify was Fulham FC's, and that was probably only because of the big LG and the word "Fulham" visible from the plane.
Cheerio, ya wankers ....
