I’m writing this sitting in the departure satellite at Geneva airport. It’s nearly quarter to eleven at night and my flight back home was meant to leave at seven. The executive lounge kicked us out half an hour ago and those of us bound for London are now the only passengers left in the airport.
We are all being very British. There is a certain amount of tutting going on. A family with small children is playing “I spy”. (But I can’t see anything, Daddy, it’s dark out there and anyway, there aren’t any planes”.) Luckily, no-one has yet started any community singing. But it’s only a matter of time.
Those of us who used our Priority Pass cards to gain access to the lounge are fairly sozzled (apart from me, the boring teetotaler). We have discussed the merits of iPhones, helped each other to complete the Sunday Telegraph crossword and eaten more paprika flavour crisps than is healthy.
“Daddy, are we still in Switzerland?”, our little I Spyer has just asked.
“Yes, unfortunately,” a number of us have replied in unison.
I hear the faint sound of humming…