The great-grandmother of airports, Heathrow was closed yesterday. There will be tremendous chaos, but not of the type that characterizes war, or a natural disaster such as a large earthquake. Somewhat disturbingly, some part of me is actually enjoying seeing how the part of the world that I detest grinds to a halt.
I am of course speaking about the make-believe world where well-heeled executives jet around busily, shiny briefcase in hand, converging at precise locations and timings to discuss how they're going to screw the rest of us over again. I enjoy seeing how a few inches of snow manages to stop our great, big capitalist machine in its tracks, and how we will all actually survive this catastrophe. Even better is the irony that the man stranded at the airport might, just a few days ago, have been trying to convince everyone of his superior abilities to foresee the future.
Meanwhile, business is as usual in the rest of the universe, proving that 1000 sweatshop workers and 100 paper-pushers didn't really have to pay for their CEO's Christmas vacation to London. Of course, when the snow melts, we shall all scurry back to our designated positions, work doubly hard to clear the backlog, just in time to ensure that all the cogs in the machine will be turning nicely for my flight from Gatwick on New Year's Day.
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