Making an entrance

I flew back from Gothenburg last year, arrived in Heathrow, grabbed my hand luggage, speeded through customs, turned the corner just before the bit where everyone waits for loved ones/chauffeurs and skidded on a pile of sick. Slid about 2 metres into the waity bit before losing my balance and cracking my knee.  Everyone rushed forward to help me and make sure I was ok.

Made that last sentence up. Course they didn’t. I just got up and limped to the bus stop stinking of sick. I always thought it was probably some poor mail order bride vomiting before seeing the guy who bought her for the first time, but someone else said it could be someone off a stag do.

3 thoughts on “Making an entrance

  1. Pingback: The language of life | mydaftlife

  2. Pingback: The un-happy meal and the big apple | mydaftlife

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