Gatwick Airport Quotes

I was at Gatwick and I was a mess: breathlessly excited, horribly nervous and hoping, praying, that this might be it. That the man who was belted up preparing for touchdown would be the man I would spend the next sixty years picking up from airports, missing him, loving him, feeding him and, all things going well, having a fair bit of sex with him.

As arranged, Floyd Bradley was waiting at Gatwick Airport to drive me to their home in Chelsea. It was such a comfort to see his calm, familiar face after my long, memory-filled trip. I was so frazzled that when we reached Floyd’s car, I stood motionless by the right-hand door even after Floyd had walked around to the left door and held it open for me. He kept saying, “Wrong door, Mary. Wrong door.” I couldn’t even grasp what he was saying. I was so upset and distracted that I’d forgotten that the driver sits on the right in England.

Elizabeth had explained again and again to Joyce that Farnborough wasn’t an airport like Heathrow and Gatwick, and that there wouldn’t be shops. But her friend is crestfallen nonetheless. ‘But there’s not even a WHSmith’s,’ says Joyce, looking around the arrivals terminal.

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At HQ, meantime, the Dispatcher of Inspectors is cackling hatefully as he cuddles his Bradshaw's Railway Guide, for the train the inspectors will catch at Victoria has a restaurant car but it is too late for what British Rail jestingly calls "breakfast" and too early for a life-giving drink. Heh, heh! At Eastbourne, they [the bank inspectors] stamp into the bank's Market Street branch, flourishing many a dread credential and reciting an Ogden Nash-like poem which goes after this fashion: Keys, Please. Then they glance swiftly around to observe which cashier has gone green about the gills, which teller is slipping his pocket-money back into the petty-cash box and feeding the racing pages of the Daily Mirror into the shredding machine, which assistant manager is sidling out in the general direction of Gatwick Airport.