Progressive whinge

In the summer of 1991, I took my friend Alice to Stansted Airport where she was catching a Continental Airlines flight to America. I drove up and parked directly outside the terminal building – no problem because mine was the only car there. We then fought our way through the crowd of two to check her in and then we said our goodbyes at the security gate that was devoid of any other travelling passenger. I think I saw about a total of ten people the whole time I was there. Lovely. Fast forward to the summer of 2008 where STN appears to be shorthand for stinking, as in hellhole. Lots of cars, lots of people, lots of noise, me going one way, three million people going the other, absolutely no redeeming features about it whatsoever. Oh and a crud cup of Costa Coffee, just to really put the boot in. Yes, my mother was delivered safely to me, for which I am duly grateful, but I sometimes wonder about the price of progress...