23^rd December 20120. Heathrow Terminal 1, gates 77 - 90

I started this blog at what I thought was the end of long and stimulating day.  It’s 11.30pm on Wednesday night 23^rd December 2010. I was delayed in Vancouver for 4 extra days when snow closed Heathrow, I finally arrived in London last night, having flown from Vancouver via Amsterdam. Gene and Jade were there to meet me at London City Airport and we went around the corner for some Turkish food.  A perfect finish to a long day.

This morning Gene was flying to Dublin on a 6.30am flight, so we jumped up at 4am, faffed about and made our way to Heathrow.  No dramas there as she flew out on time. Her flights have been perfect. BTW I the froze on the way back to the hotel in Islington, having only a light jacket and getting slightly lost on the Tube. I had a chuckle as I figured it’d be warm and crowded on the underground, and then remembered that really there was no reason for anyone to get up early in London, so the Tube was cold and empty. The plan was for me to then fly to Dublin at 8pm tonight after I finished a client meeting, where Gene would be hanging out with Angela and Enda. That wasn’t how it turned out.

After heading back to the Islington Hilton and having a second shower to warm up, I caught up with Lucian Hudson, our London colleague (Google him to at Cornerstone Global) and after working through the January agenda and briefing notes on our next meeting, we met with Sir Alex Allan (Google him as well) for two hours at the National Portrait Gallery where we ended up having lunch, followed by Alex taking us to the National Gallery to see a work in progress by his next door neighbour, a bloke called Ben Johnson.  If you’re in London check it out, or Google Ben as well and you’ll be blown away by his detailed panoramas of Zurich, Liverpool and the current work on Trafalgar Square. That said, Sir Alex is a lovely bloke, obviously super smart and stimulating company, but I ended up being a touch late for the Dublin flight.

Getting from Islington to Heathrow sounds easy enough and it is, but carting two bags with you and negotiating the crowds on the Tube is always an effort and there’s no way to escape the stairs on the underground.  And talking of stairs, my knee decided to play-up at every set, adding to the fun.  Nothing to get too excited about at that stage as I was on the way and made it to the Heathrow Express in time to make the plane. At the airport it was all pretty straight forward; checked in, in record time; got upgraded to business class on the flight (albeit a fancy term for a free feed and a couple of extra inches leg room on a BMI flight) and went to the British Midlands (BMI) lounge to rub shoulders with the not-so-poor.  The board listing flights, had a number of Dublin flights cancelled or delayed, but mine was showing on time and directed people to go to the gate. That’s when things started to get a touch tricky.

The holding area for the flights was being shared with about half a dozen other flights to different airports in Ireland. The mostly Irish crowd was noisy and happy enough, with quite a few folks getting increasingly annoyed by the delays and one bloke sitting next to me swearing at any official who happened to walk past. I was taking it all in as I waited, with my pathological optimism to keep me company. The board then directed us to go to Gate 77.  Things were looking good and while everything at Heathrow Terminal 1 is a long walk away, at least it makes you feel like you’re on your way. Gate 77 only ever appeared in the distance.  I got close enough to see it and then joined the back of a long line of expectant passengers, all looking a little distressed. This was followed by some indecision by the airline and an hour later an announcement that Dublin Airport was closed as a result of heavy snow.  FMD!

Once the flight was cancelled I headed off to try and be the first in the queue to re-book.  This was cut short waiting for my bag which had to be collected and then I headed down to the service desk.  By then the line was almost stretching out the door.  I darted over to Air Lingus and the line was even longer, so raced back to BMI. Then I started working the phone, calling Gene and Enda who did their best to see whatever was about.  Enda had at couple of his mates see what was available out of other airports that night and Manchester looked the most promising, but I’d already checked out the forecast earlier in the day and the weather was closing in up there as well, so we gave that a miss.  I called Lucian who generously got his travel agent on the case, but nothing was going anywhere close to Dublin. Back at the BMI counter a full two hours later (9pm by now) I finally managed a seat on a 3pm flight the following day, so I settled for that, fully expecting that to be cancelled as well.

That done, I headed down to one of those places that I’ve seen dozens of times at airports, where tourists book accommodation when they arrive at their country of destination. I’ve always wondered why anyone would wait till then and I’ve often felt a tinge of sympathy for the poor buggers waiting in line to book into a back-packers or some dive of a motel near the airport.  Now standing in that same line myself, I watched people walking past looking at our sad little group standing in line and probably feeling grateful that they were heading home, or already had a hotel to go to. It was another long wait. Just over two hours. No seats, still tarted up in my suit from the day’s meetings (I’d ditched the tie as soon as I got on the train) I was beginning to feel weary.  Still the young bloke at the counter was perfect; helpful, a little sympathetic, and happy to be getting the overtime just before Xmas.  That was the good part. The bad part was that only a few rooms were still available and they were all expensive.  I took one at the Crowne Plaza near the airport and wondered what the long line of people behind me would feel about sleeping at the airport, or trekking all the way into London then having to take their chances getting back to Heathrow, as the Tube train drivers had just declared a 24hr strike for St Stephen’s Day with the possibility of pulling it on earlier.

Then it was off to the hotel in a taxi.  The driver was quiet.  He’d no doubt read my weariness and knew that silent service was what I was paying for.  There’s nothing attractive about Heathrow airport and its surrounds. It no doubt makes sense to someone somewhere, but if I had to walk to the hotel, I’d still be there. You’d re-mortgage your house to find a way out. I’m reading Alain de Botton’s little book on a week at T5 and know that he wasn’t there out of necessity, or he’d have written something completely different (but don’t let me put you off – it’s a great read, but not when you’re stuck at the same airport he’s writing about). 

At the hotel check in, the computer was slow. Like all these places they call you Sir, or Mr McDonald and ask you questions as if they’re genuinely interested in your day, all the while apologizing profusely at the glitch in their system and the time its taking. It makes you feel at least superficially cared for. But it still took too long to check me in. Once in the room I ordered hamburger for dinner which I woofed down, watched the weather channel (not a god idea), treated myself to a bath and a bit more of de Botton and hit the sack. It was quite a day and tomorrow was not looking much more promising. Signing out for the moment.