And so, the airport remained closed.
The flight was cancelled.
Audrey booked me on the first plane she could which leaves, if the dust settles, on Friday morning. Coach. The other alternative was via Edinburgh a week Monday.
I spent the morning packing my suitcase and panicking - not sure whether to be more afraid of not flying than of sucking in a couple of engine's worth of silica and plummeting into the sea - then I spent the afternoon unpacking apologetically and putting everything back in the drawers - everything being five cocktail dresses and a lycra evening dress that I would like to ritually burn. Audrey did not whine when I said: I'm afraid you're stuck with me...
I've been stuck with you my whole life, she replied, with a sigh - and her husband only suggested I should get an apartment once. But they were being stoic. Let's face it - the only thing worse than a guest who comes to dinner and falls asleep at the table is the guest who comes for a week and turns into a refugee on the way to the airport, then weeps about it.
That would be me.
And yet, where better to be stuck than in The Upper East Side town house with more help than rooms, where the cook knocks on my door and begs to make me dinner and the butler brings my clothes, washed and folded and asks me if they need ironing? How bad can it be when Greg the masseur passes by and knocks the creases out of my neck, and where the Ambassador calls and asks you if you want to have dinner since you're not traveling?
'Do you like sushi?' He wonders.
'I love it,' I respond.
I mean, really, all this and sushi too?
I can hardly complain...
And yet I do.
