How a saintly airline representative at Luton made us all feel better about the world

I think her first name was Denise. It was hard to discern on her small easyjet name badge; but the surname was certainly Williams. So let’s call her Denise Williams. The name matters less than the circumstance. It was Luton Airport departures corridor (gates 1 to 8 to the best of my recollection); the time was Sunday 5 February, from before dawn until at least lunchtime. This (you may remember) was the morning after snow had blanketed most of England; and south-eastern airports including Luton were in the near-ritual state of mayhem we all but demand of our transport infrastructure when there’s snow. It gives us something to talk about.

‘My airport hell’ stories are uninteresting. Airports are not hell. Honestly, try hell, and you’ll prefer Luton. Our generation is as hooked on competitive aviation-based conversation as doubtless a previous epoch anchored its anecdotage in horses, carriages, grooms and the villainy of horse dealerships.