The sadness of a Jeep with a flat tyre on the fourcourt, gravel-bound, peeling signs, what do you want from us?
I think of the air in the gents, humid with water from the hand dryers, acid with the uric tang of piss. The subtler notes of rotting shit.
Wo heimat zu?
I had the airport stress dream again. It’s like a recurring dream. I can’t get to the airport, via any form of transport, no matter how hard I try. I miss my plane – usually one that would be taking me to a conference. This time : a car smash, lost hours, a late, never-arriving District Line, a trip home, a refusal on my part to ask for a lift. I feel dreadful this morning.