Monday December 1st. It’s one of those very English days where the sky is heavy, rain falls in intermittent bucketloads and it never really seems to get properly light. The tube from St Pancras to Heathrow is ridiculously rammed, full of wheelie cases, backpacks and sweaty bodies in overcoats. I am a sardine in a tin, Michaela is trapped in a corner, overheating visibly. We make it to Terminal 2 early for our 21:05 flight. 21:05 quickly becomes 21:20, then 21:45, then 22:00, 22:40 and eventually “CANCELLED” appears on the app and “GATE CLOSED” on the screens. Everyone crowds around the desk, haranguing the poor airline staff as if they…