LAX was its usual rubbish self, Heathrow even more so. Bridging the two was an okay plane ride (thank you Air NZ) that was made slightly amusing by my seat companion, a chap from East London who played fast and loose with the Queen's English (how many times, do you think, is it possible to insert the word 'innit' into a sentence? This dude was, I feel, out to obliterate the world record). Also aboard were 50 or so British search and rescue guys on their way home from Christchurch. Some of their stories would make your blood run cold and no one clapped louder than me when they embarked.
I am not even going to riff on how much I am missing the Mollster right now, because I shall only cry and that will lead to swollen eyes and runny mascara, and I don't want the Animator's first glimpse of me in eight days to be deeply unattractive.
Instead I shall gaze upon the pics below and hope Molls knows how loved she is. And how, if I could subvert long plane rides, her age, stupid quarantine regulations, had a garden and was going to remain in the UK for the next few years, I would whisk her back to us in a heartbeat.
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