Bathmatwatch: Day 7
Godspeed you, Ryanair, and get me home, though I fear it will be too late. Perhaps, like Tristan and Iseult and the ship with the white sails, Gatwick Airport will fly a dirty blue flag to signal that the bath mat is still there when we land, and a black one if it is gone. But there is no flag – is no news good news?
Then the agony of train and tube until the sweet relief of spotting it, tempered only by the knowledge that I can't get my camera out immediately, but will have to walk right past it with my girlfriend, spurning it until I can “just take the rubbish out”. Our bins have never been in less danger of overflowing.
Luckily there was still just enough light. I didn't want to use a flash, as although there are still a few fireworks around it might have alerted somebody. It is pushed back snugly against the wall, though inspection for any images of deities will have to wait for better conditions tomorrow.
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