And now I’m on a plane to New York. I have 60 hours in New York City: it feels like a challenge. I’ve never liked this city. However, I’m fairly certain that that’s my fault, not its.
It’s all I can do not to fall asleep in my Sam Adams, raw clams and marshmallows.
The London dark gnawed at me.
In which we road trip and there are too many characters: the Cub, Badger, Bunny, Bunky, Powerjam, brother, sister, as yet un-nicknamed cousin, Nakiska, Flipper and friends. And, unsurprisingly, too much drinking.
“It’s aprés!” I laugh.
“You’ve never…? Oh wow.”
I have nailed this Heathrow thing, I think, as I arrive at the airport at precisely the time I had planned, being precisely 2 hours before my flight, stroll into the priority check in, make one particular purchase from Jo Malone and buy my favourite guilty lunch (Leon’s fish finger wrap, I’m so English now) and then the gate is announced and I take my bulkhead row seat and peruse the menu (one meal, 9 hours? Jokers).
He scrawls his number on a card. “You have trouble, you call me, Alexandra.” (The Greeks love my name.) “Just call,” he urges, eyes crinkling around the edges.