On the Thursday night, my grandson had another asthma attack. Because my boy had had a few drinks before going to bed, granddad had to get up and drive everybody to the hospital. That night I had an hour’s sleep.
On the Friday night I had no sleep at all. Check-in time for my flight to Lisbon was 4.30 in the morning, and it wasn’t worth renting a hotel room at Heathrow, so I sat in the Costa coffee lounge from 10.30 p.m. and read a biography of the American short-story writer Raymond Carver. At around 3 a.m., just as Carver’s lung cancer was diagnosed, the genial barista made his way over to my table and with practised politeness asked me to please take my feet off the seats.
At 4.30 I went downstairs to the check-in desk and found myself at the back of a long, stationary queue. Everybody checking in seemed to have a problem.
Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in