Every summer holiday, when we go back home to England, it's always the same routine. We will arrive at Heathrow airport, and my mum will search for a pay phone. She will then call my grandfather, and make a conservative estimate of when we will arrive at his house. While she is making this all-important call, the rest of us will hunt out our baggage on the baggage claim. When this is finished, we will proceed to the information desk for whichever car rental company is the cheapest that year, and the assistant behind the desk will be away. My Dad will use the phone provided to call the rental headquarters, and they will tell us which bus to use, to get to the pick-up point. We will then traipse outside into the cold (freezing when arriving from Malaysia) and try and sort out which bus to get onto. …
