I hate that song. And yet there I was singing it all the way home, in the rain no less. Of course being British I would moan about the weather – but then I have more reason to than most people. I work at Heathrow airport.

Oh ho! I hear you cry.

Why does that warrant a moan-laden blog post?

Because Heathrow airport is full of holes, so when it rains outside, it’s rains inside too!

There I was putting books out, as per usual, when I felt something wet spray lovingly across my face. Last time I checked there wasn’t much need for water in a bookshop; pages aren’t quite as readable when soggy. And the only time you usually feel a spray of wetness is when a person sneezes and the book they’re holding isn’t quite wide enough to catch the mist… before closing it gently and replacing it on the shelf.

God, I fucking hate it when they do that. Kids are the worst for it.

So either I was being sneezed on or there was a leak. Part of me wishes it was a sneeze; I’d simply shoot the sneezer a look of disgust and then be sick for the next three days. A leak was much worse. I’d have to mop up the water with some Starbucks tissues (because we’re too cheap to buy a mop) and then put a bucket out to catch the water, along with a sign saying “WET FLOOR, SWIM WITH CAUTION.” All that and I’d still have to call property services to tell them to mend the bloody roof.

So you see I wanted it to be a sneeze, really I did. A sneeze would have been easy peasy, lemon sneezy. Or something.

But it wasn’t.

It was a leak – a huge leak. And because the ceiling tiles were metal things with little holes in (think speaker covers) the water sprayed everywhere. The bucket (which was really an empty crate we use to transport books in) wasn’t big enough to catch the onslaught of water.

So I did my mopping, or rather tissuing and I put out my little crate (although fat lot of good that did as it had more water around the damn thing than inside it.) The only thing left to do now was to ring property services. And dry my hair. But I couldn’t find their number. And I didn’t have my hairdryer handy. It’s as if they didn’t want to be rung. So I did the next best thing. I went for a walkabout to find someone who knew. I’d barely gone ten paces around the corner before I saw it.

Buckets.

Everywhere.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Splash.

A multitude of WET FLOOR signs dotted around the place as if it was trying to tell me something. Oh it was. WET FLOOR.

CAUTION.

YOU MAY SLIP AND FALL AND BE FORCED TO CALL AN ACCIDENT CLAIM HELPINE AND EARN A FEW DAYS OFF WORK ALONG WITH SOME NO WIN NO FEE CASH…

Well, I could wish.

I stood short at 5ft4 looking all around me, for miles I could see nothing but little islands of people surrounded by water.

Well I wasn’t going to swim through that. I’m sure property services would’ve changed their number by now anyway seeing as they must have received about a billion calls from Heathrow today asking them to mend the BLOODY ROOF.

So I did what any upstanding employee would do, I turned back around and carried on putting out books.

I just hope someone remembers to empty that bucket…

Carlos

The airport is a trove of lost treasures. It was only last week I found a half eaten sandwich – barely a day old.

I kid, I kid.

It was actually a week out of date.

But yesterday I found something much better than a smelly sandwich. It was a note, a card in fact. Written to a very sexy, handsome (her words, not mine) Spaniard named Carlos.

If you don’t believe me, just enlarge the picture on the left and read for yourself.

You must be wondering why then, I had such a card in my possession. I am not, after all, a sexy, handsome Spaniard named Carlos. Far from it. But a card I had. And it got me thinking. If this Carlos really appreciated Gloria’s heartfelt (if a slab too much cheddar) words, then why was the card tossed by the bin  with less care than you’d find in an old people’s home?

I mean, he couldn’t even be bothered to get it in the bin, shows how much he thought of her.

And what’s with the name Gloria? Do you know anyone with the name Gloria who’s under the age of sixty? Because I sure as hell don’t.

So I put two and two together. And instead of making four, or even a funny five – I simply made a funny.

Of course! Gloria really is a sixty year old woman. She’s probably from Cornwall, hence the title of this post. And Carlos really is a sexy, handsome Spaniard. Only he’s leaving the country now isn’t he? He doesn’t want to be reminded of his holiday fling abroad in the chilly isles of the UK with a tea drinking, hair-curler wearing, shortcake eating, Gloria, does he?

So he left the card and Gloria’s heart on the floor.

Well Gloria, you didn’t make Carlos’ day, but you certainly made mine.

Now, if I could only find a fiver next time…