She was a woman of a certain age. Her face gently betrayed a lifetime's experience, her hair was neat and grey. "I am on my way from Australia to Glasgow. It's taken some time. I was 21 when I left Melbourne," she said, her humour in contrast to the scenes of chaos all around her. There were children crying, parents visibly waning and others fortifying themselves with alcohol. Welcome to Terminal 5, Heathrow Airport, March 27.

The splendidly rendered building was gleaming on its first day. It also hummed with barely repressed anger. My morning had started in Basel. My afternoon was spent sitting on a jet on the Heathrow tarmac. "There's no-one to set up a stand," said the captain after an hour. The stand arrived. "There is no-one to bring out the air bridge," he added half-an-hour later. My late afternoon and evening was spent with hundreds of travellers who shared that hopelessly optimistic notion that BA would fly us to Glasgow.

BA told us little. Then they told us nonsense. At one point, a mass of passengers arose from the seats to converge on the gate desk. I feared they were going to stick a communal head on a jet. They did not. Humour prevailed, but only just.

The anonymous voice on the public address system kept issuing statements that the 15.10 to Glasgow would board in 15 minutes. She did this with a commendable regularity unencumbered with any hint of truth. She then informed us the flight crew had been delayed, presumably on a BA flight.

Boarding the flight, three hours behind schedule, the captain graciously apologised for the failings of his company. I intend to pass this on to my luggage when/if we are reunited. Only 15 bags were loaded on a full flight.

One image remains. A sign on a desk proclaimed: "British Airways. We are here to help you." There was no-one there.