Airports

Airports are good places to write. If I were a writer, I would journey to one even without a ticket, just for some inspiration. Rain slowly fell, struggling to make it to ground, like a reluctant boy dragging his feet to school after the holidays. It pretended to avoid its final destination like a man zig zagging his approach to speak to a cute girl at the bar, the droplets proceeded, pushed on only by the force of the drop behind it, like a sleepy commuter in tube people traffic.

While writing, I would of course desire good coffee, and airports, being airports would provide some pale imitation. One might peer outside at the planes, these huge flys these beasts of the air.

The grey all around the skies made it difficult to believe it was summer. One knew of course, it was a logical deduction from a calendar, but to really be, summer required more than a date. Summer is a belief that life is good and bright and happy. That it's right to drink beer and smile at being alive.

I suppose that if you had been having some poor sleep recently you might dread the prospect of a 24 hour flight. You might just wish you could sleep somewhere, or rather, knowing that you can't, you might wish for an injection that made you feel refreshed. And the prospect might daunt you, you might try to focus on the movies that you would watch and the excitement of new people or old friends newly seen that travel brings.

It is 8pm London time, that means 5am Sydney time. That means that I should stay awake for the next 12 hours. One coffee would not be enough.