4am sucks ass. 5am is fine; I’m used to 5am; 5am has been my life for over two years. Luckily, I’ve been experiencing a period of late nights, and then had Zachary (aka, early wake up call) at the weekend, so getting myself into bed before 9am wasn’t an issue. It still hurt when waking up though.
The cab ride to Heathrow was uneventful. ‘Why Heathrow?’, I hear you ask. Continental airlines have stopped servicing Houston from Gatwick. ‘Continental? Didn’t you hate them after they lost your luggage last year?’, I hear you ask. Why, yes, I did, but then Delta lost it on my next trip, and at least Continental provide in seat power (rows 17-23 on their 767-200 planes, if you’re interested) meaning I can watch my own media on the long flight over. That trumps on flight entertainment.
The cab was unexpectedly expensive. I heard the woman on the phone say £50, turns out it’s actually £63. Luckily I had take more cash out than necessary, would have been an embarrassing moment.
So Heathrow Terminal 4. What a fucking dump. Small, crappy shops, nothing opens until 6am, and a lot of shops are closed due to some kind of redevelopment going on. Shit hole.
Treated myself to a big English breakfast at the Whetherspoons and the killed the remaining time browsing Borders and picked up a couple of interesting books – one on student card counters who broke Vegas, and another on ‘The Black Swan’.
The flight boarded promptly and within 30 minutes of take off (9.30) I was two double vodkas in. I don’t know what it is about flying, but vodka before 10am just feels right.
I watched Saw IV. Am unimpressed. The franchise was good for the first two films. The third was unnecessarily gruesome without any real content, and the fourth? Don’t bother. Again, it’s gruesome, the fx are great, but where’s the story?
I crashed out at midday (unrelated to the alcohol, honest) and woke to another two vodkas. I enjoy this life.
I now feel a marathon of The Big Bang Theory coming up. Thank you, Amaya, for the recommendation. 4 hours 30 minutes until destination.
Immigration was, as usual, a PITA. I’d confirmed on the plane, and with the staff working the line, that as I’d completed the online green immigration form, I didn’t need to fill one out to show to the man behind the counter. Cue me going to find a form, fill it out and rejoin the queue again (albeit at the front). Perhaps showing my indignation wasn’t a good move, and after a stern look, I stopped bitching.
Customs was another exciting event, he looked at my card, put it into a a4 folder and asked me to go through the double doors to the side.
I wheeled my suitcases through the doors and waited for a BCP officer to be available. I’m asked to open my bags and he goes through all my items. I’m asked questions about my job, why I’m coming to the country, how long I’m going to be there etc. We get talking about London. Apparently he’s coming over in February and will be staying not far from my office. We’re going to meet for a beer.
The rest of the journey was uneventful, I arrived at the hotel, ate, and went to sleep. Zzzzzzz