On Saturday night, my flight from Philadelphia wasn't the most pleasant I had ever had. Three babies decided to cry for almost 6 hours straight, and at least half the journey was plagued with turbulence that was bad enough to keep us all seated and belted. As always, British Airways did its best to keep everyone comfortable, and that is why I prefer to fly with them.
I had a nice surprise when I arrived at Heathrow the following morning. My brother was waiting in the crowd for me, and we had the chance to have a quick drink together, before I went off to rent a car. By mid-morning, I had made it to my mother's place. After a quick chat and lots of hugging, I went off for a nap.
That evening, my mother made me one of my favorite dishes, which I ate with my customary enthusiasm. I then took a sleeping pill and hit the sack.
At exactly noon yesterday, I knocked on the front door of my father's place. Dad opened the door and stood in shock as I wished him a happy sixtieth birthday. I had managed to keep my visit completely secret from him, and the poor man took a few moments to realize it was really me at the door. I spent a happy afternoon with his family and friends, and then went back to my mother's for another drug-induced night of sleep.
This morning, I went into work with my mother. I had the honor of meeting some of the people she works with, and I had her nice chat with her friendly boss. From there, I drove into London to meet my father for lunch, after almost falling foul of London's ridiculous Congestion Charge system.
I'll write more about my time in England later in the week. In the meantime, I would just like to say how much I miss my wife. My nights are lonely without her, and the seemingly longer days are not as interesting. She is always in my thoughts, and England just doesn't seem like home anymore. My place is with Deborah.