I love air travel. Yes, you read right, I love going on aeroplanes to faraway places. I think it's exciting, not ordinary in any way, that you can climb into a jet propelled pressurised tube and travel in a couple of hours distances it would have taken month to traverse just three generations ago. My Dad will celebrate his ninetieth birthday in a couple of months, God willing. When he was born air travel was achieved in things made of fabric and wire. In a few minutes I'm getting on a 737 to Belfast, which is a routine part of my life and a lot of other peoples. I honestly feel privileged to be able to do this. The process is made all the bitter-sweeter by the knowledge that future generations may not be able to fly so easily.
Now I'm sitting ina nice cafe, sipping latte and blogging, overlooking a runway where the planes are landing sixty seconds apart. T1 is not all that bad. A few less stupid shops and some nicer areas to sit would be very welcome but compared to say Dalaman, or Miami International, Heathrow is OK. Not as nice as Bangkok or as terrifyingly efficient as Hong Kong, but OK, really.
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