We made it back to Blighty - finally - yesterday, two days late, after hours spent at Moscow airport, in taxis, and on the phone and at airport check in desks rebooking flights (3 times) because of the snow at Heathrow. We raced across concourses, trunkies trailing behind us, cannoning into whoever was unfortunate enough to get in our way, and muttering curses under out breath (well, that last was me. The cannoning into was done the boys - mostly).
We were the victim of soviet-style lack of communication, misunderstandings, and random acts of kindness (thanks Tattie Weasle for reminding me of that phrase!), and were adopted at 10pm on Saturday night by Amy Winehouse's tour manager who sent one of his guys to go and find our luggage for us so we could go home rather than spend the night in a cruddy airport hotel.
And finally, after a Sunday spent doing not very much in particular (which was actually a welcome bonus in an otherwise crazy Christmas season), the boys and I made a flight yesterday afternoon which went amazingly smoothly and which delivered us and our luggage intact into an incredibly deserted Heathrow Terminal One.
And now, having scored the last pairs of snow boots in the Boys sizes for a 100mile radius of London (according to the shop assistants in the 5 stores we visited this morning), we are taking a break before heading back to where we're staying. Well, when I say 'taking a break' I'm alone with the boys and one of them is desperate for the loo. So now I have to go.
You get the picture... Happy Christmas, all!