We got back to Heathrow yesterday. Of course, it was folly to think that our suitcases might still be there. Instead, according to a computer generated message to which it is, of course, impossible to answer, they may be on their way to Madrid even in spite of the fact that British Airways, if their computer systems were operating, ought to know that we have returned. So, I have spent this morning realising how much of my life is contained in a suitcase: the suit that I want to wear this evening; my best shirt; my only operating alarm clock; the books that were going to be gifts to friends in Madrid; my braces. This is as nothing to the suitcase of my wife which contained the pills that keep her alive (luckily, we obtained some from a helpful Spanish pharmacist). The suitcases are said to be in a warehouse somewhere in Heathrow, no doubt in the care of a subcontractor, awaiting reassignment. One day we can hope to see them again, but no-one can tell us when.