There is nothing a little pastry can’t fix.
It had been a mad dash from the South to the North Terminal. The London public dodged right and left as I barreled down the corridors, elbowing and apologizing profusely the whole way. I arrived at the check-in gate to an unsympathetic woman who repeatedly told me that Yes, even though I was just six minutes late for the gate and even though I had ran harder than ever before in attempts to get there, I was not going to be on the 2:45 pm plane to Marrakesh that I had a ticket for. The system was closed, she said, never to be opened again for Flight EJ2573.
Damn storm. The flight from Toronto to London had been delayed by four ruddy hours, leaving me just one hour to embark, go through customs, collect my bag and get to my connecting flight… all six minutes too late.
After shelling out fifty pounds for the next morning’s flight and a quick cry perched on my rucksack on the floor of the North Terminal, I followed the signs towards the train station into London. As I made my way down to the platform the smell of butter permeated my senses and made me turn my head. The welcoming yellow glow of a shiny pastry stall beckoned me closer… There were fifteen different types of pasties in the glass case – one sweet apple caramel and the rest savoury, ranging from wheatmeal vegetable, to steak and Stilton, to egg and bacon.
At that moment it dawned on me that I was on vacation, and better yet – on an overnight layover in London.
I ordered two golden crescents and skipped off towards the express train headed for Victoria Station.
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