I raced through Gatwick Airport, desperate to reach the Finnair flight to Oslo before the gate closed. DC was also at the airport, en route to Greece. Delighted to find company, he asked my advice on where to purchase a pair of winter boots. I really didn’t have time to stop and chat. I pushed past him and shouted back that he’d probably find a shop in the departure lounge.
At baggage control another passenger tried to strike up a conversation with me. “I’m heading abroad for the equivalent of twelve nights away with a beautiful woman”, he boasted. In reality, he was taking his daughter and three of her friends away to Paris for a long weekend. I wasn’t interested. I had to reach the gate, and now it appeared that my suitcase was over size and about to be confiscated.
After a final burst of sprinting (minus my bag) I made it to the gate. Six or seven beautiful blonde airline staff greeted me in a formal reception line and asked to check my old-fashioned multipart ticket. There was nobody else in sight, and it looked like the flight would be empty. I asked what had happened to all the other passengers. “We’d love it if more people would fly to Scandinavia with us” came the reply, “but the British don’t come. It’s because they know that they are not as beautiful as the Danes.”