I was supposed to be in Boston by now. Instead I'm sitting in my flat bored out of my mind and frustrated beyond belief. My flight home was cancelled due to snow. Four inches of the damnable stuff fell on London yesterday. Heathrow shut down and with it went my hopes of getting home for Christmas. I managed to get re-booked on a flight Wednesday. I'm not holding my breath. Chances are I'll be right where I am now on Christmas.
I suppose I shouldn't complain too much. I'm not sleeping on a hard floor under an emergency blanket at the airport. Nor am I completely without hope. I have hope that I will make it home before the New Year.
This is the first time I've said this, much less thought it: I want off this island.
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