A none too common chat on
the phone with younger daughter centred on the other story from her sister’s
arrival yesterday, so here it is – I’ve driven 125 miles to Manchester Airport,
killed an hour in a French themed bistro and am stood at International Arrivals
waiting for my elder daughter to appear when I glance to my right and see her
name written on a cardboard box lid held aloft by a random stranger stood next
to me; several hypotheses, all equally unlikely, flash through my mind before
tentative enquiries establish we are definitely meeting the same person, but
that I have the advantages of (a) parenthood and (b) knowing what she looks
like, however his explanation seemed plausible in that he was actually there to
meet not so much my daughter as something she was bringing back for a mutual
friend, a suitcase that sure enough appeared in tow when she finally emerged.
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