So here I am, back at Heathrow Terminal 3. I know it well now, since meeting B in 2006 and starting a series of near-enough-quarterly jaunts over to New York. In fact, as I arrived on the ‘Heathrow Hoppa’ bus from the Sheraton this morning, I had to enter Terminal 3 at the Arrivals side - and saw the area where I very first laid eyes on him. It was sweet to see it again.

But now here I am in Departures, typing a quick missive while I wait for my flight to Kuala Lumpur to be called. And despite it being hot and stuffy, and full of people (I’m guessing those two things are connected), I love being here, because there’s something about being alone at an airport that makes me feel terribly independent and grown-up. I get the same feeling when I buy a sandwich from the buffet car of a train. It doesn’t take much to make me happy.

PS. Searching for pictures from The Terminal, I wonder whether this one is actually a little more like me. Not that I’m not wearing a suit. Nor sprawled on the floor. Nor do I look much like Catherine Zeta-Jones. But apart from that: