So I find myself, almost 6 months since I set off for Vietnam, back at Heathrow Terminal 5, waiting to be called through to my flight.

I woke up at 4 this morning, with a bizarre sensation that half my head was waaaayyyyy too hot. I found the small cat stretched out alongside me, his front paws stretched across my upper chest and his nose burrowed into my cheek. Tim, wisely, was happily oblivious and still sound asleep. So I did what any reasonable person would do under the circumstances, and poked him. There really is no point suffering alone…

So. The point is, it was an early start. We were at the airport shortly after 7am. Mainlining coffee in Pret by half past. And now it’s almost 10am and I am overdue a substantial, cat free second sleep.

Our plane (above) is leaving from a B gate, so we got the transit. Tim wants me to point out that that’s not a van – he’s made his daily submission to pedant’s corner, and the rest of you can just go home… anyway. I tucked myself into a little corner and began determinedly to snooze. When we were coming to our stop, I gently kicked Tim’s foot to let him know, and smiled up into the face of….. a total stranger. “Oh. Sorry! I meant to kick him!” I gabbled, pointing at my beloved. “Man!” Said the guy, to Tim, “what did you do??”

“I don’t know”, confessed Tim “I think it’s probably just your turn!”

And they laughed, and shared a ‘women, huh?!’ eye roll. Meantime, my son scurried away, glowing with filial pride.

We’re going to Chicago, for a fortnight. It’s off to a good start!