I had a bit of an inauspicious ending to my holiday in France today. Firstly, it was pissing it down. Secondly, I had to drive myself to the airport (not really knowing the way), as Fleur's sister Colline didn't feel like driving there AND back. Additionally, I found out on the plane that the wonderfully direct Mo Mowlam has died, from reading my complementary copy of The Telegraph. (Not my normal choice of paper, but they don't seem to get The Guardian in Switzerland, and given the choice between the Telegraph and the Daily Mail...) Finally, when we got to Heathrow, the ground staff mislaid my girlfriend's luggage: doubly anguishing when you consider that it contained her entire supply of epilepsy medication.
We went through the whole palaver of logging a mishandled luggage report with the very helpful BA staff at Terminal 4; they were genuinely understanding and pulled out all the stops when we told them that the bag contained essential medication. I wasn't particularly hopeful of ever seeing the bag again - all the stories I've ever heard of missing airline baggage have been of it being filtched by someone with light-fingers, and them never seeing their property again - so I was most surprised (and relieved) when a courier turned up at just after 8pm with the luggage in hand, completely intact.
I'm now going to endeavour to type up the rest of the blog entries I wrote up by hand in my holiday pen and paper journal. Hope you didn't miss me too much while I was gone... (What? You were gone? - Generic reader)