The man from seat 41C tugged on the laces of his shoes, and straightened up. He draped his overcoat on the handle of the luggage trolly, loaded his bags, and wondered off down the corridor towards Passport Control. A smile from the lady at the AA desk welcomed him back to the UK, and he half smiled back. The girl with brown boots was somewhere behind, pulling along a little case on wheels, and the couple from row 24 fiddled with the wife’s bag, looking for the stubs of their tickets.

Mister 41C rounded the corner, and padded through the security at the other end. He stepped out into the bleak and cold afternoon of Heathrow, and looked about him. Nothing shone anymore. All he could see was cold, wet, miserable people, and a dark cloud looming overhead. He wondered how much of this weather would stay, and how much was just hanging about from the New Year. Great, he thought. Just what the doctor ordered; rain.

A half hour later, he was asleep in the passenger seat of a car, being carried back into London. He dreamed about the flight, about waking up late and having been sent back to the States, as if he’d bounced back the way he came, as he often did on the District Line in the summer on the way back from Sloane Square. His feigned panic for the people at Immigration, and then joy at the prospect of seeing his sweetie again. One merge onto the A308 later and he woke with a jolt. He looks out the window, peering over his glasses, and sees nothing but the grey sky, rain pouring from the clouds hung in it. He settles back into his seat, and frowns to himself. His friend in the driver’s seat asks him what’s up, but 41C just replies he’s tired. It’ll pass, he says.

“It’ll pass. “