So, shades of Adelaide, they rolled up a set of stairs to the aircraft, and we all deplaned onto the tarmac. Onto the crowded bus for a trip to the terminal.
Heathrow is HUGE, don’t let the size of the terminals fool you.
British Passport Control was interesting, the "West African" woman running the show seemed on a power trip, "Don’t do that, do this. Do you have your customs forms?"
You can’t tell these people to get stuffed.
Well you can, but you’re off to having an interview with Mr. Latex Glove.
The queue was an hour long, I can see what Douglas Adams meant when he said the British were used to queuing.
As my bag was first on the aircraft, it was last off. Intact no less. No signs of abuse at the hands of the Qantas ground staff.
Through the "Nothing To Declare" door, and since I was almost the last passenger, there was no HM Customs staff. In one door, down the corridor, and out the next.
Grab some cash
Straight to the ATM to grab some cash. I was going to get some GBP before I left Australia, but the ANZ bank was most unhelpful.
"Need to see Photo ID with a signature on it"
But I’m a customer! I have my work photo id.
"No good, for anything over $200, we need (a driver’s license)"
So the ATM it was, as I prayed to the ATM God "Please please please make my plastic card work"
It did, and 200 GBP later, it was off to see the guy picking me up.
He was easy to spot
He was the one holding the (not-EDS) sign.
"You must be Mr. Dale" No, that’s my father, call me Bruce 🙂
Imagine a guy 5ft short, in a grey double-breasted suit, with a cockney accent.
Ian was his name.
The "motor" was a Chyrsler 300C diesel, darn nice car.
Heathrow to the hotel was about an hour journey.
The door handle fell off. Repaired and fell off. Maintenance was not a strong suit.
Had an early night, I was bushed.