Yesterday, I found myself at Heathrow’s Terminal 5 at 6.30am. This is not somewhere you ever want to find yourself at that particular time of day, but when you book an 8.45am flight weeks in advance, you always forget how unbelievably early you’ll have to get up in order to make it in time. ‘Quarter to nine,’ you think as your mouse stutters over the ‘confirm’ button. ‘That’s reasonable. And it seems a lot cheaper than the others.’
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I woke on Tuesday at 4am and could hardly breathe. I was sweating (and, post-menopausal that I am, I never sweat) and racked with worry. I grabbed my hair, put my head in my hands, and said out loud, ‘What am I doing? What was I thinking?’