The Day Started Out Wonderfully

24 hours between the City and Gatwick · September 2026

The day started out wonderfully in the City.

I went for a long run from St Paul’s to Tower Bridge, along the river and back on the other side. I met a friend for breakfast and visited two medieval churches — St Bartholomew the Great and Holy Sepulchre — which impressed me in completely different ways.

St Bartholomew is what remains of a once much larger monastic church.

Founded in the 12th century, its extraordinary Romanesque interior has survived for almost 900 years. The church was extensively restored in the 19th century, when parts of the medieval complex were also rediscovered.

The original, strong and low stone columns are still there, supporting the great arches above. To me, it breathed a very grounded, earthy and contemplative atmosphere.

Holy Sepulchre was different.

Parts of the church survived the Great Fire of London, while the interior was rebuilt afterwards. Today it is a remarkably active city church, open to and engaged with the local community.

I discovered a “Compassion Corner” — a simple circle of chairs, inviting people to sit down and talk. And by chance, I heard someone playing the organ. A musician was practising a beautiful piece. I sat there in silence for half an hour, listening.

Around me were flags and memorials to soldiers on the walls. Some from the First and Second World Wars. One had fallen at Dunkirk.

Contemplation and compassion.

Two encounters on a quiet Friday in London, after an energising morning and a full finance conference the day before.

I set out for the airport.

When I arrived at the gate, my flight was delayed by an hour. Good. I would still get home that evening. While waiting, I started reading Erving Polster’s Every Person’s Life Is Worth a Novel.

Early in the first chapter I came across a sentence:

“People are often the last ones to recognize the drama in their own lives. They marvel at the adventures of others, but don’t look inside to see that their own lives hold just as much possibility.”

Then we started boarding.

I had already passed the boarding-pass control when the line suddenly stopped.

After a while, we were called back.

Our flight had been cancelled.

Around me was a confused crowd.

We were shuffled to another gate and told that we could leave the airport from there. For everything else: please check the app and rebook.

What now?

I was frustrated.

Confused. And, for a moment, overwhelmed by all the things I suddenly had to sort out. And I also noticed that I stayed pretty calm.

First: find another way home.

Luckily, I found a flight the next morning with another airline. A detour via another city, but from the same airport. I didn’t know whether it was the best option. But it would get me home.

Booked. Done.

Second: find a place to stay the night.

The good hotels around the airport were already full. I found a room in one of the cheaper ones. 7 m². Really?

Well. I took it. Done.

By the time I arrived at the hotel, it was already around my usual sleeping time.

The room was small. Very small. Like a cabin on a ship. But it was clean, and the mattress was excellent. The receptionist was very kind, also offering tea, which was very refreshing.

I sent my wife a final message that all was well, went to bed, and fell asleep.

And I slept wonderfully.

The next morning, I was refreshed.

I went running again, like the day before. This time not through the City of London, but through a small park along a creek behind the airport.

It felt really good to be outside. While running, though, I noticed the smell of kerosene in the air.

The aircraft noise followed me into the neighbouring village I passed through. I found myself looking at the houses. I imagined the families living there. Children growing up and playing beside the creek, with the aircraft noise overhead and with that faint smell in the air. Playing and laughing with their friends.

And I was one of the travellers passing overhead. Contributing to the noise and the smell.

Back in my little room, I was glad that I had gone out. I took an excellent shower, packed my things and headed back to the airport.

Back at the airport, I was really happy to arrive at the gate.

The signs had been confusing. A fellow traveller laughed with me: “We all made the same wrong turn.” The lady at the gate welcomed me warmly when she heard about my cancelled flight.

I also recognised a few familiar faces from the evening before — a father with his two children, and another passenger.

They had found their way here too.

We had all made it.

Later, sitting on the plane, I remembered Polster’s sentence.

Had there been drama? Well, yes and no.

It was frustrating, at moments overwhelming, and it was manageable.

I had decisions to make without knowing whether they were the best ones. I made them anyway.

My flight was cancelled. I spent a night at Gatwick I certainly hadn’t wanted.

And life simply continued.

There was a kind receptionist and a cup of tea.

A surprisingly good night’s sleep.

A morning run with the smell of kerosene and a creek behind the airport, where I found myself thinking about the families living underneath our flight paths.

A stranger laughing with me about taking the wrong turn.

And familiar faces from the evening before, relieved to have made it too.