On the not so Abbey Road home.
Out of the resort at 11am Thursday, drive the I-4 to Orlando International, rental dropped off, bags checked, shoes checked for terrorist activities (the whiff of sweaty trotters in the security line was terrifying enough), tram out of the central hub to departure gate, final shitey burger meal downed (no more burgers please), herded on to the flying bus, doll-sized pillow and blanket issued and, on schedule at 4:35pm, quickly up and off across the North Atlantic for a cramped and uncomfortable bit of time travelling.
Landed 5:30am in a what-the-effing-eff-is this? cold, wet and windy Glasgow. Looking around around the wrinkled, pink and peeling, screwed up faces of the zombie swarm around the baggage reclaim carousel and we soon realised we weren't in Kansas any more.
To be fair, it was all a pretty painless experience, but it doesn't ever mean I have to like it. The happy memories of the past fortnight will soon shuffle all of that to some dark and unvisited corner, and that's what counts.