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321 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 20, 2016
Our walks are as unique as we are—from the pert strut of a Strictly Come Dancer to the no-nonsense galumph of a Tory lady politician.
I love Gatwick Airport. Its elegant perimeter road, its state-of-the-art monorail system, its kerosene-stuffed aeroplanes soaring overhead like aluminium eagles. It’s the London airport it’s OK to like.
Stansted, or Stanstead, or Standstead or Standsted as it’s variously known, is an arrogant upstart. City Airport? Full of bankers. London Luton isn’t in London and is barely in Luton; and Heathrow is just an absolute tit of an airport. No, Gatwick is the place to be.
I take a moment to look at the transport hub that surrounds me. I don’t just drink in its beauty, I actually feel like I eat it too. But what’s this? Ah yes, the tell-tale thunder-roar of a plane taking off. At first I struggle to hear myself think, but it’s OK, I just turn up the volume in my mind. And then, almost instinctively, I find myself standing bolt upright, saluting the winged beast above me and yelling up to it at the top of my voice, ‘Good luck, large friend. Take wing and fly. For the skies are yours now and you are free, free to soar and swoop, to glide and gambol across the very face of heaven, until you touch down, weary yet elegant in a land far, far away’. And with that, Ryanair flight 9853 to Cork is gone.
Remember, to a no homer bins are like supermarkets. We’re in Gravesend so it’s likely to be more Morrisons than Waitrose, but (and this is lovely writing) beggars literally can’t be choosers.
