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February 23rd 2011    Tim Candler

    Around midnight at the airport the temperature was 33F. Two hours later here to the south it was 28F.  Rotten with unfairness in my view, but probably something to do with concrete and tarmac and bright lights.

    Always a place of memories.  Some of them gone to exaggeration, I know.  But there was a time, when a person walked across the landing field, climbed steps, and then spent an hour or two being waited on by well dressed and perfumed women or suspicious looking men.  Hot towels, cold towels, sweets for the ears, and what I have always considered delicious food.

    In those days of course planes might have had propellers, so distance was covered more slowly, and frequent breaks were encouraged.  Bahrain, Cairo, Beirut, Tehran, Karachi.  Entebbe.  Then it would get cold.  Rome, Paris-Orly, Heathrow.  A plane called a Constellation rings a bell.  Or perhaps it was a Britannia.  The Comet. Then the VC-10.  Flying Boats, before my time.

     I saw them again.  These days they all pull their luggage, but they still wear uniforms and they still look rather pleased with themselves.  But I really should concentrate more on this year's spinach bed.

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