Airport architectural conceit

It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression “As pretty as an airport.” Despite the occasional interesting element, the overall impression often falls somewhere in between confusion, annoyance and panic. I'm less interested in their architectural conceits than I am in being able to find my way around and catch my flight.

I woke late to a glorious day. While we drink coffee a robot rolls randomly about the house hoovering. And then it's time to go - a short hop in the car to Madrid. Of all of us, it's the dog that least wants to get in the car.

Ken and Cristina's flat in the city is on the 4th floor and has a view back to the mountains we've just crossed. On a 'bad' day you can't see them through the smog, but today they are clear and sunny.

After another great meal - fish followed by strawberries - Ken takes me to the airport. I've not been able to checkin online and there's a long queue at the airport. They lead a few of us round the corner to the priority checkin - which I would have used anyway if I'd known it was there.

I go flight side and have half an hour to enjoy the Iberia lounge. I'm not feeling very chipper, so fortify myself with juice and a donut and then it's time to fly.

I listen to downloaded Radio 4 programs all the way to Gatwick, sipping Gin Mare & tonic. A drama about Tsar Alexander II sees me through passport control and security (again). And now I have twenty minutes to sample a BA lounge and I'm pleasantly surprised by a tasty, spicy sweet potato & lentil curry.

Uneventful flight to Edinburgh, a tedious wait for the airport bus and a quiet drive through the summer night home. I'm greeted by the red glare of a heat lamp and eight sleeping Buff Orpington chicks.