We arrived at Kings Cross station with shakey legs, flushed faces and no idea of where to catch our bus. We asked a busy lady at the station’s information booth for directions. Whilst giving us our instructions, she also directed a group of white-socked americans to the “ladies bathroom”. I half wondered if we would end up with a water closet and missed bus. But we found our bus stop.

Deserted. A little pole, a red bus sign and nothing but the woosh woosh of traffic. We had definitely missed the early airport bus and could only hope that we hadn’t missed the later one.

We laid down our luggage, fed Reuben a biscuit, and waited.
Had we missed our bus to the airport? Would we miss our flight to Spain?

Slowly, some luggage-laden foreigners approached us. Looking dubiously at the sign, they they then pointed at the ground saying “Stansted? Airport?”. They seemed to know less than we did. Poor souls.
The bus arrived. It would deliver us to the airport 45 minutes before our flight departed. The minimum check-in allowed was 45 minutes. The journey would give me a welcome chance to rest my (adrenlin-drenched) still sick body, but would we miss our flight?

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