No Fairytale, This

5.00 a.m. – Heathrow, Terminal 3,
eerily quiet; a day or so after
New Year. A prawn sandwich,
and coffee, I’d have died for. Sans
hassle, sans staff, sans travellers...
except me; a skint reporter, aeons
early for their flight.

A lone, black shoe catches my eye;
a shiny, patent-leather stiletto,
abandoned on the floor. No pun
intended, but what of its soul-mate,
and where could she be – the one
who’d worn it? Small feet, indeed,
this ‘femme fatale’.

Shuffles into view – a cleaner...
pushing a trolley, grudgingly
scrubbing the tiles; hair tied up
in a Paisley scarf. ‘This yours?’
I ask. ‘Who do you think I am,
love? Bleedin’ Cinderella! You,
ain’t no Prince Charming for sure!’
she quips, with a pearly white smile.

‘Don’t fit neither,’ she adds,
and yet it seemed my luck was in.
No fairytale this...no princess, no
pumpkin, yet I’d made my ‘scoop’,
as sold to ‘The Dailies’...A photo –
‘Cinderella of Heathrow’,
that spoke a thousand words.