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I was awake before my alarm went off at 5:30am this morning. I skipped breakfast and headed for Heathrow terminal 3.

I’d allowed 2 hours for the 30-mile journey expecting the worst from the M25, but I was ahead of the commuting madness and I arrived at the familiar multi-storey car park in record time. In spite of my uber earliness I couldn’t help but jog across the concrete following the ‘Arrivals’ signs… I was excited. I was about to be reunited with my family and I was very ready to see them.

I tried to fill my airport waiting time with activities but there is not a whole lot to entertain you at Terminal 3. I bought a coffee. Sat and drank said coffee.  Threw cup away. Had a wee. Paced around a bit and waited. Minutes felt like hours. Time crawled by.

Eventually Adlai emerged riding a luggage cart pushed by my wife carrying my youngest son on her back. The trio looked surprisingly upbeat and I jumped over the rails like a champion boxer and ran toward them. Soon we were all hugging, Adlai was telling me about his plane adventures and Faith was filling me in on the nice lady who sat behind her and held Koa whilst she peed, and the ‘mean’ lady who sat in front of her and stared disapprovingly every time Koa came within 30cm of her chair.

The flight, overall, was a success. The boys slept; Faith did not. They watched movies and ate snacks, and there were no throwing up incidents or major melt-downs.

I’m glad to know my boys can travel well, because I imagine we’ll be doing more of these trips than we can count in the coming years.

But mostly, I am glad we’re back together.





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