Rachie’s gone. Or ‘don’ as Lila says. She went red, turned into half a lobster, recovered pretty damned sharpish, so we slung her out and sent her back to Berlin. We even did the unspeakable, the impossible, the never-ever-in-Conway-land unmentionable and ‘took her to the airport’!!! Just to make sure she really left. We never do airports. It’s just the worst thing ever. The traffic, the crowds, the parking, the waste of time… so Coronavirus actually gave us the solution to every one of those problems. No traffic, no need to park, lots of time and crowds? Crowds??

We didn’t want her to get a cab. They’re driven by disease-ridden ne’er do well rapists. Which is fine in normal circumstances, but THESE AREN’T NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, in case you missed that.

The ‘crowds’ at Heathrow were… missing. No cars. No people. Deserted. Terminal 5 hasn’t been this quiet since the day before it opened. More worrying, no planes. Empty skies all the way.

But the daughter had to return to the Fatherland. Because she has to vacate her flat. And that’s hard from here. Where she arrived on March 10th, just in time for mummy’s birthday, and has been locked out of Germany ever since. Lucky for her. She has to undergo a 2 week ‘quarantine’, enforceable by leather-coated, jack-booted… well, by the police. Stasi. Whatever. And after that she can move. And resume working in yet another different home. Same commute, which is picking up your laptop and pulling it onto the bed with you.

Not the best of times to be on a plane. In an airport. Traveling. But what do you do? Mask up, gloves on and hold your breath for 4 hours.

The round trip to and from Heathrow took 1 hour 15 minutes. In the ‘real world’ it would take 14 hours of hair-pulling, honking, screaming, red-faced swearing (not like Rachie’s one, this one stops at the neck, in which every sinew is stretched to gruesome), parking space-less, move along, can’t leave that ‘ere, mate, total frustration and agony.

Happy just-the-two-of-us Day

A xxxx