Clive Davis returns from holiday:
As we came in to land, we put our watches back to March to take account of the weather. Then we faced the interminable midnight wait at passport control as members of the secret service sifted the terrorists and arms smugglers from among the long line of tired families clutching their holiday souvenirs. Then we tried to make our way to the long-stay car park, unaware that the shuttle buses had been temporarily moved to a different part of the airport. (No one seems to have bothered putting up a sign announcing this inside the terminal.) Ninety minutes after our flight touched down, we finally set off on the M11.
It could have been worse, Clive concludes. He could have landed at Heathrow rather than Stansted. Or, for that matter, JFK or Charles de Gaulle.
Or he could have the wrong name. The wearying aspect of this
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