“Underwear, soiled on one tray, iPads and adaptors, post 1947, another tray, Post Modernist Impressionist Art, that bin over there, everything else wrapped up in an old beach towel covered in 6 month old Factor 40, follow me please!”
So declared Claire at Terminal S, Gatwick Airport, en route to my second set of trial flights this year, to Barcelona, Spain in a far off land named Europe. The bubbles are distinctly superior to Iceland Prosecco, while the “Yorkshire Frittata” is clearly Italian for Bradford Pea Omelette.
Sara has just insisted “we have a clean one” for our next glass of Castelnau Champagne, from Reims pronounced “Reims” in France, pronounced, “France”.
Here again are we, Dear Reader, on the pre-Brexit Chrexit Sunseeking Trail via British Airways, a company which may be banned from landing on Los Runwayos Españoles after we’ve been taken to Tusk through the Barnier...
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