When she finally appeared, grinning broadly on her own sober high, I felt in good company and ready to face whatever followed unhindered by British reserve.
American customs officials however had other ideas.
It seemed that Virgin had taken the cattle bus concept to heart. We were herded out into an empty, bland terminal and ordered to queue by a variety of JFK staff who had been briefed by the FBI to expect trouble.
Brits, it seems are not popular.
“Stand there.” The uniformed pretender to Adolf Hitler indicated to an empty stretch of polished floor in front of a check in booth.
“But there’s nobody there,” I pouted, pointing my comment to the booth that had been recently vacated by the check in guy.
“He’ll be back,“ Ms wannabe Adolf waved her arm imperiously and stalked off.
He didn’t come back, so I moved queues, which was probably a mistake judging by Ms Wannabe’s expression when she swept passed me for the second time.
“Hi,” I beamed my friendliest ‘still under the influence’ beam to the check in guy in the next booth when at last it was my turn.
“You filled your form in?” He almost smiled.
“Yes,” I beamed. The form had been handed to us before we got on the plane and I had filled it out while H reiterated her luggage concerns and then carefully checked over just to be sure post gin and tonic.
“No you ‘aint. Fill it in here and here and here,” he stabbed the green form with an accusing forefinger and gave me the evil eye.