[London Heathrow, Terminal 3. Thursday 19 July 2018. 23:26.]
Chk.
Reverse thrust, and 240 people on that aircraft went about their business as if nothing had happened, because nothing had.
We taxied for 9 minutes. My mother put her book in her bag and did up her coat and said, "Well," which is my mother's entire summary of a World Cup.
Then the seatbelt sign went off and the cabin stood up as one animal, and I was home.
Bing.
The purser was at the door of the flight deck when I came up the aisle, and she had clearly spent 4 hours deciding whether to do it.
"Mr Walsh. I am so sorry. Would you mind?"
"Course not."
There were 6 of them in the end. 2 of the cabin crew, the purser, a girl who could not have been 22 who had been serving my mother hot towels for 4 hours, and then both pilots came out of the flight deck in their shirtsleeves.
The captain had a Palace lanyard on his phone case.
"20 years I have flown this route," he said, lining up. "Never had a reason before."
