My mother told me "Half past five, so we must be there for half past two."
Therefore, on Thursday the sixteenth of May, my mother and I arrived at London Heathrow shortly after lunch.
We studied those screens which dangle from the ceiling in Terminal Three, looking for our half-five flight.
Consternation! Were we a day early? Were we -- horrors -- a day late?
My dear sweet mother dug out the tickets and we studied them.
Eight thirty-five. Eight thirty-five.
Man, these passengers are prompt. Very very prompt.
Once a long time ago, ZZ9 had an airport lounge party. I wasn't there. But now, I know what it must have been like.
Still, I got to introduce my mother to Starbucks.
("Orange juice? Mother, this is a coffee shop.")