Vinnie, unwanted and unmet, checks her watch and with an indrawn breath of anxiety begins pushing the cart toward the far end of the building as swiftly as possible, with Fido trotting at her heels. Soon she is panting, her heart pounding; she has to slow down. No doubt about it, she is getting older, weaker in body and in spirit. Her luggage feels heavier; one year, sooner than she imagines, she will be too old and weak and sickly to travel alone, the only way she ever travels-Fido rubs against her leg with a mournful snuffling. Stop it! Her luggage is heavier because she’s staying longer and there’s more of it, that’s all. And surely, since all the flights are delayed tonight, the bus will wait. There’s no need to rush, to pant, to panic.

As it turns out, this is a mistake. When Vinnie, at a carefully moderate pace, shoves her cart out into the rainy, lamp-streaked night, she sees a red double-decker pulling away from the curb in the middle distance. Her cries of “Wait! Stop!” are not heard, or perhaps not heeded. Still worse, there are no cabs at the taxi rank, only a queue of exhausted-looking people. As she stands, chilled and weary, in the queue, jet-lag depression rises within her like cold brackish water. What is she doing at midnight in this wet, bare, ugly place? Why has she come so far, at such great expense? Nobody invited her; nobody wants her here or anywhere. Nobody needs her silly study of children’s rhymes. Fido, who is now sitting atop the broken suitcase, lets out a foghorn howl.

And if she doesn’t do something sensible instantly, Vinnie realizes with dismay, she is going to start howling too. She can feel the rising sob in her throat, the sting and ache of tears behind her eyes.

Something. What? Well, she could go back into the terminal and try to telephone for a minicab, though they are notorious for not turning up when promised. And for overcharging. And if they do overcharge, does she have enough English money?