| Heathrow Airport is one of the few places in England you can be sure of seeing a gun. These guns are carried by policemen in short-sleeved shirts and black flak-jackets, alert for terrorists about to blow up Tie-Rack. They are unlikely to confront me directly, but if they do I shall tell them the truth. I shall state my business. I’m planning to stop at Heathrow Airport until I see someone I know. (...)
Astonishingly, I wait for thirty-nine minutes and don’t see one person I know. Not one, and no-one knows me. I’m as anonymous as the drivers with their universal name-cards (some surnames I know), except the drivers are better dressed. Since the kids, whatever I wear looks like pyjamas. Coats, shirts, T-shirts, jeans, suits; like slept-in pyjamas. (...)
I hear myself thinking about all the people I know who have let me down by not leaving early on a Tuesday morning for glamorous European destinations. My former colleagues from the insurance office must still be stuck at their desks, like I always said they would be, when I was stuck there too, wasting my time and unable to settle while Ally moved steadily onward, getting her PhD and her first research fellowship at Reading University, her first promotion.
Our more recent grown-up friends, who have serious jobs and who therefore I half expect to be seeing any moment now, tell me that home-making is a perfectly decent occupation for a man, courageous even, yes, manly to stay at home with the kids. These friends of ours are primarily Ally’s friends. I don’t seem to know anyone anymore, and away from the children and the overhead planes, hearing myself think, I hear the thoughts of a whinger. This is not what I had been hoping to hear.
I start crying, not grimacing or sobbing, just big silent tears rolling down my cheeks. I don’t want anyone I know to see me crying, because I’m not the kind of person who cracks up at Heathrow airport some nothing Tuesday morning. I manage our house impeccably, like a business. It’s a serious job. I have spreadsheets to monitor the hoover-bag situation and colour-coded print-outs about the ethical consequences of nappies. I am not myself this morning. I don’t know who I am. | 在英格兰，只有少数那么几个地方，你肯定会见到真枪实弹，而希思罗机场即其一。这些枪佩带在穿着短袖衫和防弹背心的警察身上，警察都高度戒备，唯恐恐怖分子会把特来阔（Tie-Rack）精品店给炸了。他们倒不太可能会直接与我发生对抗。不过，真要那样的话，我会实话实说的。我会讲一讲我的事情。我打算待在希思罗机场，等着见个熟人。(...)
令人难以置信的是，我足足等了39分钟，竟连一个熟人也没见到。没有一个我认识的人，也没有一个认识我的人。我只不过是一个无名小卒，与那些佩带着千篇一律的姓名标牌（上面有些姓我还是熟悉的）的司机一样。不过，人家那些司机穿的却还要更整洁些。从儿时起，无论什么衣服穿在我身上，看着都像睡衣。不管是外套、衬衫、T恤还是正装，都像刚刚睡觉穿过的睡衣。 (...)
我不由自主地默默念叨起那些熟人来，他们真令我失望，他们怎么就不在周二清晨奔向那些令人心醉神迷的欧洲各地呢。我以前在保险处的那些同事，一定还在埋头工作，还在忙得不可开交。我在那儿工作时，我总是说他们老是这样。其实，我又何尝不是如此，在那儿光阴虚掷、一事无成。可同时，阿丽却在稳步前行。她在里丁大学拿下哲学博士学位和第一个研究员职事，那是她第一次提升。
我们更为新近的成年朋友，都有正儿八经的工作。因此，也不太可能期望这时候能见到他们。他们告诉我，对男人来说，家政可是一份完美的体面工作。待在家里看孩子，可是需要勇气的。嗯，不错，甚至还需要点儿男子汉气概。我们的这些朋友其实主要是阿丽的朋友，而我似乎谁也不再认识了。没有了孩子们，也全然忘却了头顶上呼啸盘旋的飞机，只听得见自己心中的思绪如潮，只听见一个牢骚满腹的人思绪如潮。这可完全不是我过去一直在期望听到的心声。
我开始哭了起来，没有愁眉苦脸，没有抽抽嗒嗒，只有无声的泪水流下了双颊。我可不想让熟人见到我在哭。因为，周二大清早在希思罗机场毫无来由地就觉得受不了了，我可不是这种人。我把家里整理得井井有条，就像打理一个企业一样。这可是一份正儿八经的工作。我做了些电子表格来跟踪记录吸尘器集尘袋的状况，并且用标有不同颜色的打印单来对尿布的使用后果是否符合道德标准进行管理。可今天早上，我不再是平时的自己。我到底是谁，我也不知道。
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