6:00 A.M., January 1, 1999. I was only a little hungover, but very tired. My brother had gotten married the night before, and I was at the airport with my very pregnant sister, her husband, and their three year old. They were moving to England for him to do part of his residency. Our mom paid for me to go, just for five days, to help my sister get settled.
We were booked on different flights to Heathrow, flying through different airports. My plan was to take a sleeping pill, so I would arrive refreshed and ready to help. Weather interfered, redirected my 1st flight, and I ended up on the same plane to Heathrow. Another passenger was kind enough to move, so I could sit across the aisle from my sister. I’m sure he/she was very happy to move.
My sister was eight months pregnant, on a seven hour flight, with a three year old on her lap. My brother-in-law slept the entire time. Without thinking it through, I took the sleeping pill. I struggled to stay awake, so I could help my sister with my nephew. It was a very rough flight. He bounced all over the place, had no intention of sleeping. He wanted to run the aisles.
We finally made it, sister and I felt like shit.
Because of my last minute change, my suitcase didn’t follow me. Which is a good thing, because my sister and family had two large moving trunks and three suitcases. Plus the kid and supplies needed to be readily accessible for him. After spending a fair amount of time in the airport, exchanging money and trying to find some kind of decent snack we hit the road for the 2nd part of the journey. We hauled all of that luggage in a taxi to somewhere in London, but still had to walk a fair distance, pulling all of this shit, to the train station, for a damn near three hour trip to Norwich. My BIL had his cowboy hat on for the entire trip.