Here I am, sitting awake at 2am, when I have to get up at 5.30am to go to the airport. Heathrow, that is—the world’s least favourite airport (R) TM. The only part of flying I don’t mind is the actual time in the air. The rest of it I find unbearable. No matter how sensible the departure time appears when I book it, I always find myself out of bed at an ungodly hour in order to travel to the airport in some far-flung fringe of the city it purports to serve, so that I can be there two hours before take-off. Two hours in which I stand in a long queue for the only two counters actually staffed, worrying about my habitually overweight baggage. Will they accept it, or will they demand a couple of limbs in payment?