Driving past Heathrow Airport every day, as a travel addict, has its perks and pitfalls.
Looking up to see the immense body of an Emirates A380 gliding majestically through the sky, my mind wanders to a place far flung. I’m unable to pinpoint the location my mind has travelled, but my thoughts have certainly escaped the confines of my Audi A1, leaving high and dry the parking lot that is the M4.
My eyes naturally follow the beast’s movement as it descends gradually. Its fuselage, like the torso of a steroid junkie, bulges eminently in the London skyline. Odds are this flight has come from Dubai, but what about all the other innumerable flights that descend upon London on a daily basis?
From where do all these passengers come, and why, I ask myself as my car crawls forward like a tortoise in quicksand.
Getting carried away with the limitless possibilities, my imagination sparks like an artist’s on LSD. I feel free, liberated and unrestrained as my mind boards a flight, the destination of which matters little.
As the A380 slips behind the tree line and out of sight, so too does the state of reverie with which I was immersed. Just like that, the perk of driving past Heathrow had come to a crashing end.