A foggy ride to Heathrow.

5.50am the taxi arrived. Just as I’d started to haul 58kg of spinning bike from the garage to the kitchen. Helen likes to spin when I’m away, it gives her something to do.
The driver is Iranian, he came here for treatment following the Iran / Iraq war when he was caught in a land mine blast. He married an Iranian doctor from Oxford.
I spent a fitful night. Wanting to sleep because I was tired but not wanting to sleep to savour every conscious moment with the family. As a result now I’m checked in and waiting at Heathrow I’m shattered. Flying is my least favourite form of transport and 8.25 hours at 39000 feet (or whatever it is) fills me with dread.
However, on the plus side – there’s always a plus side – I am going to what looks to be one of the most beautiful places on earth.