After the day's Mighty Breakfast of Fried Pig, I do my last drive; over to the airport. I even remember to drop the keys before I depart.

We leave Islay as the sun rises over the mountains, and have a stunning flight which climbs over the west coast of Scotland and quickly reaches the dreicht layer which obscures everything. After several seconds at cruising altitude, we start descending for an uneventful landing at Glasgow.

This is when I learn about the South's snow issues over IRC. My flight has arrived on time, and my hope is that having five different code shares, it's important enough not to be too badly delayed. Indeed, it's all looking good right up until it's sat on the runway for a little too long. That sinking feeling arrives as the plane slowly leaves pole position and taxis back onto the apron. We spend 25 minutes sitting on the apron as the pilot explains we've missed our takeoff slot waiting for "some figures" from ATC.

We finally get going, and while Scotland is free from snow, it turns out the South is telling the truth. Heathrow has just collapsed. We wait for half an hour for a gate and then another 45 minutes before bags turn up. My plan for the rest of the evening is to meet in the pub, and I spend an hour slowly clanking into London on the Piccadilly line.

I finally find folks following facts found from IRC and descend to the smokey overcrowded dungeon that is the marvellous Olde Cheddar Cheese.

My recollections of the rest of the night are unreliable. I think noodles were involved.

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