I quite enjoy books that give you an inside view of things that you don’t normally think about. I think that’s why my reading list so far is pretty biography/memoir and non-fiction heavy. I’ve once been to London, and have very fond memories of my time there, so I love to learn about one of my favourite cities in the world. I landed at Heathrow airport, as millions do, and distinctly remember standing behind an African family in the customs line. The mother (of what seemed about 800 noisy children but was probably really only five) did not appear to have a passport, and I listened to her desperately try to convey to the customs personnel, in broken English, and grabs of an African language I couldn’t place, that she did not know where her passport was. Maybe she meant it was lost in transit, maybe she never had one. I’ll never know, but I’ve never forgotten the look on the face of her kids as it became increasingly clear that the lack of a passport was going to be a problem. This was the kind of story I thought I would read about in this book.
This book I stumbled across at the local library, and it was interesting, and a nice little encapsulation of Heathrow. It didn’t inspire me, or move me, or change my thinking in any real way. In fact, I’m so far behind in my blog posts that I am writing this some weeks after reading it and I can’t remember a damn thing from it, and other books I can. So maybe you might say it was a bit of an anticlimax. It did give me a chance to reminisce about my time in London and my experiences of Heathrow, as well as boggling the mind with the hefty statistics about how many planes and people and staff the massive airport caters for daily. Other than that, this book was fairly forgettable. Shame.