Waiting for the bus to the airport, we see geese flying north. Sign of a warm winter? At the airport we check in the suitcases. The employee doing the checking is a dwarf in a wheelchair. Understandably he isn't behind a desk, where he would be able neither to see nor be seen. This does mean that he isn't next to a weigh scale either, so our cases are scanned unweighed. They're sure to be under the 23 kilos, but the flight to Cyprus will be less generous, so it would be nice to get a readout. J puts them on the conveyer belt and we begin to wonder if we've genuinely been checked in. Shades of a Warwick Davis script. No passport check, but then, as J poinuts out, this segment isn't international.
Montreal so much better than Toronto for the transfer - smaller and quieter. The flight leaves at nine and makes up a bit of time as it goes. We're near the back, opposite the middle row the stewardesses have snagged. Interesting view of their meal - clearly left over from first class. Steaks, much better salad than ours, fresh fruit and berries. They don't seem to be allowed wine, though, and ours wasn't bad.