The Best a Man Can Get .

Back from a trip across the Alps. A ' fun ' night with unsmiling folks in dark suits. The snack on the aircraft bordering on the surreal . Possibly a sausage. Possibly not .

As usual Angus is viewed by the worlds airport security staff as an existential threat. At Toulouse it's the rollers on the carry on bag that attract attention . In London it's the shoes that bring out the wand of shame . In Zurich the shaving foam . '' The Best a Man Can Get " glowing on the x-ray screen as brightly as a kilo of Semtex .

Wilf usually greets his nearest and dearest in dignified silence. Not today . He's in puppy mode. The old fellow pulls himself up and heads across the marble floored arrivals hall at a surprisingly ( for him ) rapid pace . ' The font ', in hot pursuit. He's heading, in what he thinks, is my direction . Canine sixth sense. The old chap apprehended before disappearing behind the sliding doors that lead through to customs .

Reunited . Flock all accounted for . The family fellow lets out three high pitched yelps of delight. An enthusiastic face lick . Then he turns on his back and falls asleep. The happy stage in life where you simply don't care what people think. ' The font's ' greeting more demure . Laughter all round .