"You remember me?" he asked.
"Of course I do," I said, politely and untruthfully, while thinking desperately.
It turned out he had mistaken me for someone he was driving to the airport. I told him his services were not required, at least by me, and he asked me where my parents were.
Serves me right, really.
Eventually he went away and got, angrily, on the phone, while Howard and I headed to the airport in the rosy dawn.
We passed through security, checked out the duty free shop and did the long walk to our gate. The flight was smooth and straightforward, extracting ourselves from Heathrow's long stay car park and then from the South Circular slightly less so, and then I was home.
(I would also like to mention that I was misgendered at Heathrow, twice, outbound and inbound, both times by people who were actually checking my passport at the time. No offence guys but I do not trust you to catch terrorists.)
I loved Malta, and it makes me a little sad that I'll likely never go back because it was small, we went just about everywhere, and there's a lot of the rest of the world to check out still.
I hope I will always remember this spectacular sunset that people were stopping their cars to admire.
Our holiday was the first time I'd been on a plane and my first long trip, in both distance and location, since 2019 and it all went really well. Maybe I was lucky. Certainly I was cautious. But I had a wonderful time.
As for the Maltese Falcon, I tracked it down in a Mellieħa gift shop.
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