Slap bang wallop

Slap, bang, wallop :  our luggage  shot out of the mysterious door onto the carousel and majestically sailed round. We were at Halifax International Airport, it was half past midnight. I shoved fellow passengers aside, snatched my luggage then gambolled down the stair and out of the arrivals lounge, eager to be on Canadian soil (Toronto airport does not count), eager to smell the air and eager to jump into a massive embrace with my great friends who I could see waiting just beyond passport control. I bounded down the stairs, leap across the slippery tiles and presented myself in front of Grasshopper, arms spread, crying with happiness. She looked at me blankly, then asked "Who are you?". I walked away crestfallen, and Nel and I spent the next ten days in the Comfort Lodge, just outside of the perimeter of the airport, watching day time tv, ordering pizza and drinking rum. 

Actually, although most of the above is true, the last bit  is not. Not at all. The fact is that like many of us who advance towards decrepitude, twelve thirty at night is quite late, and for some of us, aspects of our vision, which are'nt that great in the first place, are gradually getting worse. For this particular friend, she has the visual recognition skills of cave dwelling fish. Fortunately, unlike a cave dwelling fish, she is both a great friend and does not smell. And of course, we had a great re-union.

These are the pictures from our holiday.https://goo.gl/photos/1oP9fmcDm6zJGYQZ8