Leaving on a Jet Plane

Right now I am sitting in a not entirely unpleasant concrete corner of the pathway between the carpark and Terminal 2. A cockney taxi driver dropped me off about half an hour ago, having regaled me with stories about when he met 'the other' Delia Smith. (He took great pleasure about referring to me as the original, I don't know if he meant that as if I look 80 too or just charming customer always first priority attitude; either way he was great). 

A man has just scuffed the cigarettes into a pile with his shoes before laying out his jacket to pray on. A lady on the other side is so frazzled that when she went to light a cigarette she held the flame to her lips. 

I went inside to get my pre-flight PCR in a set up that still feels very permanently temporary, tucked into the corner of a rammed check-in hall. I have 4hrs to wait for the result. 8 until I fly. 

I know I have a bit of catching up to do. I got crap at writing because I wanted to stop writing about things had anything to do with Covid; I was worried banging on about it was like constantly describing the weather. And then I just stopped writing.

So I'm going to circle back to Feb and fill in the gaps, before I answer the oft repeated and elusive question "How do you feel about leaving?"...