On the April morning I was due to start the punishing journey back to Australia, I woke with a minor ailment, one quickly cured with antibiotics. “Don’t put yourself under pressure waiting here,” the hotel concierge advised. “See a doctor and get a prescription when you get to Heathrow.”
This sounded sensible. Airports these days are towns, where you can shop and eat and drink. But not, I soon discovered, see a doctor – at least at the world’s busiest airport.
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