Having to catch an early flight home, I was first up and out on Sunday morning, and only saw Dimview and our finished Beerometer on the way out. Four entire crates of bottles lined up neatly against the wall is a sobering sight. Or possibly a drunkening one, I forget.
The solo trip back to the airport was uneventful. Unlike the outbound flight, checking in involved standing in one of the most infuriatingly slow-moving queues I'd ever seen, as groups of five people apparently take up to five minutes to process where I can get passed in seconds flat. Hungry, I located some fresh fruit to eat, and then spent all but four of my remaining cash kroners on apple juice. On the flight home I sat in the exact same seat as I had used on the way out, on what might as well have been the exact same Airbus A319. On arrival at Stansted, the inter-terminal transit was so crowded with other people on its first pass that none of us arriving passengers could board it; then, at passport control, each of the twelve separate lines for entry to the United Kingdom was about ten minutes long, in stark contrast to Copenhagen. I guess the UK is just more popular? I ran the gauntlet of faces on the way out. Stansted has a twisty passage thing which you walk down while people who might want to meet you watch you from behind barriers at all sides. It makes you feel terribly famous. As I got on the train home to Winchester I was phoned by the rest of my family who were all in Nottingham celebrating Easter together. I had honestly forgotten all about the holiday.