The surreal and the prosaic

Well what a day.

UK temperatures in the thirties? – Surreal.

Driving to Heathrow? – Prosaic.

Air-conditioning in my car barely able to keep up? – Prosaic.

Standing in arrivals hall and suddenly confronted with the image of a beautiful lady dressed head to foot in orange-sherbet silk being escorted to a grand-piano by a security guard … she sits down and starts playing Chariots of Fire whilst cameras from BBC, and various other Olympic-fuelled media, whir. One tune and then it’s all over – our famous (I assume) vision floats away again on the arm of the black-clad security guy. The airport – having temporarily been suspended in la-la land – returns to the business of people coming and going.

Definitely surreal.

 

 

Julia arrives back from France after a fabulous week away. Priceless!

 

Stuck in traffic jam for an hour in the sweltering heat, my air-conditioning having finally given up the ghost?

Definitely prosaic.