It’s the little things that make it all worth it. My only wish is Kayte were there to share it with me, instead of half-way around the world.

Life in London. There are only so many times you can ride the train past the power station at Battersea, and still be awed. It may very well soon be time…

So, Chicago. How does that sound?

Sunday is possibly my favorite day of the week. A day where I never work, and get to put my life in order; a great portion of that order stems from reflection on the week passed. And there is no better reflection than honey and banana on toast, with the Formula One to watch.

Certainly, the broadcast could be better; it could be an HD transmission, and if still broadcast on the BBC, I’m sure it would be. It’d also be nice if we could see the race uninterrupted by the plethora of adverts that seem so pop up at the most inconvenient of times, such as right in the middle of pitting. But such is life.

At the end of it all, I still get to watch a race and take a chance to zone out just a little. These are the days I cherish, the days that I wish would last just that little touch longer, a sort of reversal of long dark teatime of the soul. Days like these, the cold, overcast ones, are the kind to share with people you love. And while it’s not always possible to spend it with those special people, when it happens, it’s worth it.

Long cold mornings, fresh coffee, pancakes, and those you care about around you. It’s the perfect start to the day. I hope to have that pleasure again soon.

Not the delicious Belgian Pale Ale, but actual, honest to God rumblings of the ground. At +53° 19′ 15.60″, -0° 18′ 50.40″ 00:56:46.0 UTC there was a distinct rumble as the ground jolted about, and again, a few minutes later, there was a mild aftershock. Initial reports peg the quake at a pretty sedate 5.3, but it was still enough to wake me here in London, a good 150 odd miles away.

More as the BBC reports it in the morning. Edit, Auntie just put a small snippet up. No doubt, it’ll be updated as more information comes to light.

The man in seat 41C grimaced as the light above him blinked on in a rather obnoxious shade of dirty orange. The man with the Sox cap in 42B had pushed the little “Attention” button to summon a stewardess because he couldn’t find his pillow. Take this, the stewardess coo’d at him, and passed an unused one from a seat three down, next to the girl the the brown boots.

The girl shifted in her seat and adjusted her blanket, buckling the belt over it as the captain had said to do before the flight hit the night somewhere over Newfoundland. The remnants of the lackluster in-flight meal, a small pack of grapes, sat half-eaten on the armrest beside her, but for one which had escaped the plastic confines of the cup and rolled off down the aisle to be trodden on by a heavy-set gentleman in his socks on the way to the lavatory. He sighed and shuffled along, glancing over the sleeping occupants of Economy. Somewhere in the middle of the cabin, a man with a now spent video game sprawled, all six-feet-six of him, across five seats. Everything from 38B to 38F, and half an aisle were taken up with his frame and bags, which bumped the front of the brown boot girl’s seat, which had caused the grape to roll into the path of the man in his socks from 24F.

His wife in 24G curled up as best she could in the seat, and pulled down her mask to drown out the blinking of the video game from the man in 38B-F. It wasn’t until an hour later that a steward pulled the batteries and shut the blasted thing up.

From 22A to 45A, all had been looking out their windows on take off. The pounding rain had delayed the flight by almost two hours, and as the rain turned to slush and snow, the show became all the more entrancing. Of course, as they’d fallen asleep, the windows had remained open.

Only the man in 36A had the sense to close it; a seasoned traveler, he’d sat down, pulled out his own pillow, earplugs and blanket, pulled down the window, and dozed off within a matter of minutes. He’d missed the entire show. He’d made the Chicago-London run enough times to know it by now; he didn’t care to watch.

Across and down from him, the man in 38B-F shifted, and woke groggily. He lumbered up, and sat down in 40C, reclining the chair as far as it would go, leaving his bags, and shoes, sprawled over 38B-F. Only the satisfying tinkle of metal and glass gave away the fact that he’d just sat on his own glasses that he’d stuffed into his back pocket before falling asleep across the seats. Of course, he wouldn’t notice until landing the crumbs of glass pouring from the tear in his jeans back pocket, into the shoes of the man in 41C.

The man in 41C tutted, and moved his shoes to the right of the crack in the seat, and turned onto his side, as best to avoid the crushing of the seat of the oaf in-front of him. He sighed heavily, and closed his notebook, stuffing the pencil into the spine of the binding, and putting the whole thing in his bag next to him on 42D.

He buckled his belt, and fished into an inside pocket of his bag, and pulled out a simple wooden bead Rosary. Wrapping the beads around his fingers, he pressed it all to his forehead, and said a silent prayer for the ones he’d left behind in Chicago, and wondered when he’d see them again.

The AA98 flight banked over the Eastern coast of Greenland and made for Reykjavik, though and down towards London. Daylight broke as the plane turned port-side facing the sun, and shafts of light burst through the cabin, illuminating the passengers in red and yellow tones.

The man with the Rosary tucked his legs up under his seat, and turned to face the sun and the windows. He shut his eyes and dreamed of his lover.