I have cause today to be at South Terminal where I am waiting. I am v early because I am meeting a very important person.  There’s the usual feast of hobby fishermen bound for boats or resorts beyond. A bundle of them sit at the table playing cards, another bundle have a chat at the next table. These are mellow fellows all, but a sign on the cafe counter that reads “Maximum Limit 2 beers per customer” suggests a history of divilish merriment at these tables may have prevailed.

There are three other very tall males, how will they fit inside these teeny vacuum cleaner planes? Will they have to fold them in half to get them in through the door?

Everything is “ickle” in this terminal.  It’s like a motorway caff, except everyone headed up, down and over.

A woman is reading a book beside me called Natural Capitalism. There are three sets of boots that say treeplanter also.