Bloody bastards

Took my knitting needles in Heathrow.  I put up as much of a fight as I thought I could, in other words started crying, and it had absolutely no effect. One of the agents told me they were pointed and "sharp as a knife." Seriously? They're made to K N I T yarn, not shred it. Been a long time since I've felt that powerless - it sucked. Yes: whingeing!

Meanwhile we've made it as far as Newark, and going on being awake 20 hours. Mom and Dad are still awake, Peter's reading, and I'm watching Anderson Cooper tally the dead from West Africa, game the chances of the cease fire in Gaza, question the Russian buildup on the Ukraine border, and analyze the Afghan suicide bomber's potential motives. Feels a long way from the vineyards of Alsace, but probably as good a reintroduction to the real world as any.