Two-and-a-half years had gone by since we last visited London and it was a relief, as well as a pleasure, to meet our little grandson, Eden, in the run-up to his fourth birthday. Neither my wife nor I have thus far contracted Covid, but the travel restrictions imposed by the pandemic had halted two previous attempts at a Channel crossing. The good news is that Eden was in fine form, as were a group of my wife’s American relatives, in London to take in Wimbledon and the Globe Theatre — Lear, if you must know — as part of a trans-Atlantic tribal gathering.
But, come Thursday afternoon, it was time to head back to Gatwick to catch an EasyJet flight to Paris. Normally, we would take the Eurostar. On this occasion, however, such was the inflated price quoted to us online for the smallest upgrade that I decided, the hell with it, let’s fly. Bear in mind, I made the booking more than a month ago, so EasyJet’s travails and the UK rail strike had yet to be announced.
