The cold shoulder

A diagnosis at last! I found (a qualified, medical) someone who was not distracted by the MRI. The trusty physiotherapist referred me to a shoulder specialist who announced I have a 'frozen shoulder' I burst into tears, not from pain this time, but because someone believed me.
This has been going on for six months now, so it's no small thing to have an actual diagnosis.

Image from kneeandshouldersurgery.com
To recap - I thought I'd pulled a muscle in Italy retrieving my backpack from the back seat of our rental. Since it was Italy and I (obviously) wasn't driving I was in the right passenger seat. So I used my left arm. It didn't end well (A Pain in the Neck) It didn't get better. Well-meaning people pointed me in other directions - the alternative approach. This irritated me immensely - resulting in the Snake Oil blog.

Airports

I've spent a lot of time in airports.

As a child I wore my BOAC Junior Jet Club badge with pride, begged the air hostess to take me into the cockpit (they always took me in). Sitting with my brothers and their friends at the end of runway 33 of Lusaka Airport, just beyond the end of the farm, watching the planes take off and land.
As a 5 year-old on a cushion, in the right-hand seat of my mother's Cessna, trying to find the railway line that would take us back to Lusaka Flying Club and chicken-in-a-basket for lunch at the airport.
As a 6 year-old unaccompanied minor being sent away to boarding school in another country, locking my arms and legs around my mother, weeping hysterically, promising to be good if I could just stay, while my father unwound me and handed me to the air hostess. Don't make a fuss, you're a big girl now, you'll be fine.
Home twice a year. Durban to Johannesburg. Customs. Johannesburg to Lusaka. Customs. Lusaka to Kitwe (where has my trunk gone?) Kitwe to Kasaba Bay, to the sandy, elephant-walk runway at the Lake, where the 'airport' was a guard's hut, the junior jet club badge buckled and bent, consigned to my fishing box. 4 weeks and then do it all again.
As a 17 year-old, with my backpack, heading off alone to see the world, my family waving goodbye at departures."Be safe" my mother said. "I'm a big girl now, I'll be fine"
As a young adult I was the air hostess taking unaccompanied minors with wobbly bottom lips through customs. I understood their fear, and even if they didn't ask I made sure to take them into the cockpit after service, asking the flight engineer to show them the 'Christmas lights' of the night cockpit.
Braais at the end of runway 19 at Ilha do Sol.Enough rum to try out the flying stunt in Pushing Tin (yes, the jet blast actually does lift you off your feet, I've seen it happen) as your colleagues take the beautiful 747 to New York.
As a mother, heading home to my family.
As a student pilot, drinking coffee with the 'real' pilots at Lanseria, listening to them telling flying stories, or giving me landing tips, endlessly re-hashing that bad one.
As a friend, saying goodbye to friends who are leaving forever.
As a daughter, smuggling my mother's ashes through Maun airport on the way to Kasane, and Chobe to wave goodbye to her forever. Don't make a fuss. Here you are home, surrounded by your beloved elephants.
As a commuter, frantically trying to find a quiet place to send emails or get some work done.
I know the smell of airports, the tearful loved ones waving goodbye, the anxious parents making bargains 'Let her/him be safe' Waving my own daughter off to Belgium when she went to study at Antwerp university, Les Mis 'Bring him home' playing dramatically in my own head.

For me, airports have always been sad places, goodbye places.

And that's why I love this T-Mobile Flash Mob video, at Heathrow's Terminal 5. This shows to good side of airports, the welcome home. I love the surprise on people's faces, the young girl with braces, tearful with the joy of it.Watch it, it's wonderful.

Welcome Home