Notes from my Christmas trip

I wrote this on the back of my e-ticket in Gatwick airport, on Sunday. Bear in mind that I really wasn’t feeling well at the time, and that my flight was subsequently cancelled. It might help you excuse the swearing.

In camera, in deed

I’m still hungover from the craziest case of ‘flu I’ve ever had. Every sound is absurd. Every muscle in my neck and shoulders screams as I move. I struggle to process the light. I’m Henry fucking Miller and I’m not happy.

The imitable Mr Miller

And yet where am I?

In the “Shake-a-hula” cafe (bright lights a-plenty), listening to early 90s rave music at full volume while the ridiculous staff throw mint Aeros into a blender. The worst bit? My flight is delayed by three hours.

Please kill me now, ’cause if I’m already dead I’m screwed.


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