How a saintly airline representative at Luton made us all feel better about the world

I think her first name was Denise. It was hard to discern on her small easyjet name badge; but the surname was certainly Williams. So let’s call her Denise Williams. The name matters less than the circumstance. It was Luton Airport departures corridor (gates 1 to 8 to the best of my recollection); the time was Sunday 5 February, from before dawn until at least lunchtime. This (you may remember) was the morning after snow had blanketed most of England; and south-eastern airports including Luton were in the near-ritual state of mayhem we all but demand of our transport infrastructure when there’s snow. It gives us something to talk about.

‘My airport hell’ stories are uninteresting. Airports are not hell. Honestly, try hell, and you’ll prefer Luton. Our generation is as hooked on competitive aviation-based conversation as doubtless a previous epoch anchored its anecdotage in horses, carriages, grooms and the villainy of horse dealerships. My indifference to the relative merits of Iberia and Korean Air is fathomless and I honestly have no preferences between Schiphol and JFK. Anyway, it’s fair to say Luton makes no claim to be one of the world’s premier airports, nor easyjet any claim to be the Rolls Royce of international carriers; and that’s fine. They do the job. What are you expecting for a £50 flight to Madrid?

This was scheduled to depart at 7.25. I’d struggled through London’s snow to be at the airport by 6.30. Not much to my surprise, on arrival I found on the notice board that the flight had just been delayed until 13.25 for reasons too tedious to detain you with. I quickly reconciled myself to the wait.