Many hotels these days have a swimming pool. In warmer climes, these are often accompanied by a few sun loungers and a bar. At Heathrow, the pool is in a glass room in the middle of the bar. It was a fine line in a choice of viewing. Hotel pool or watching England beat San Marino 8-0.
“I’m going to Jamaica,” says Alex. “But first I’ve got three days in New York to sign off an apartment my dad’s selling there. He’s the German ambassador.”
“Please marry me immediately, Alex.”
Is what I should have said. And possibly asked him if he had a limitless supply of Ferrerro Rocher.
I didn’t, of course. Partly because we’d only just met and I didn’t think that an airport hotel was the best place for a proposal. I don’t know what the other part was. Apart from being 23, having just graduated in Events Management and being set for a lifetime of fabulous travel, there wasn’t much about Alex that was worth the risk.
Actually, there was. He likes a drink too and is a surfer.
Sadly, Alex was on a later flight than me, although the prospect of New York was almost as alluring as New Orleans. Not least when I looked out at the hotel window upon the first day of Spring. It’s minus 1 and hailing. Still, what better excuse is needed to leave the country?