If the romance of travel is to be extinguished then Terminal 4 Heathrow is the extinguisher to do it with, but my imagination is strong enough to paint it with glamorous hostesses, the smell of aviation fuel and all of that malarkey. If there are any glamorous hostesses to be found here they are having a fag in the depressing smoking zone outside, where terminal staff huddle in the cold like lab animals waiting to be experimented on – bring back the appreciation of travel I say, perhaps even pop propellers back onto aircraft.
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