When faced with a protracted stint in the odd, liminal space of the exit lobby of Britain’s second-largest airport, one can do several things. People-watching is my favourite, and as I wait for my meandering coach from Gatwick to Bristol there is a constantly revolving carousel of weary travellers, a fair few Taylor Swift fans returning home from Lyon, and chauffeurs awaiting their charges nursing ever-stagnating cups of Pret A Manger coffee.
I cannot, however, watch people for two hours; I’d go mad. I also cannot bring myself to read one of the magazines or newspapers from the paltry selection on offer in one of the innumerate WHSmith outlets that seem to proliferate in airports, seemingly in defiance of the plight of their high street counterparts.
