Heathrow - a love/hate relationship

So here I am in Heathrow once again. My god I used to hate this place. I think I went through here 20+ times in 2003, and every last bit of dirt, every crap cup of coffee, and every surly service person in the known universe must have congregated here to magnify my loathing. You know a place is really like some deep-in-the-mire corner of squallor when its only redeeming feature is the Pink Elephant parking service ... the bus to freedom, as I used to think of it.

But Heathrow ... all is forgiven. The BA Terrace lounge at terminal 1 (where I type this while watching the FA Cup final, and drinking a fine vintage port that will surely infuriate Stilly) has made up for all the sins of the past. How has it done this? The answer is, after 26 hours of flying cattle-class, tossed around like some kind of human salad, this place includes its own corner of Nirvana. An eight-jet super-massaging shower, with more hot water than the entire Canberra catchment probably has in all its dams :-) And it only gets better, because Man U have just been denied a goal for off-side. The Qantas club membership is money well spent.

Well, back to the life of Riley. Mmm, more vinatage port I think (oh, wait, they've got 15 year old Glenlivet as well. Mmmmmmmmmmm)