Moving

A sweaty night marked my last one of this trip. I had an early walk to catch the tube to the airport and all was calm around the St Pancras Old Church.

Last year I sat in the check-in zone at Heathrow eating a hash brownie so I didn’t have to take it through security. This year’s 9am treat was a can of pre-mixed mojito that I couldn’t face leaving undrunk.

The journey was arduous. The kid behind me on one leg was very unruly and liked to smack all parts of herself against my seat for hours. When I brought the mother’s attention to the distraction, the response was that ‘she can’t stop moving’. Evidently so.

I watched Gladiator 2. I don’t like gratuitous violence, I have always found it uncomfortable. It’s the same reason why I can’t abide the ‘sport’ of boxing and related pursuits in which people smack each other to pieces. I have always found it strange that otherwise mild-mannered compatriots will pop up the day of an apparent ‘big fight’ and ask if I’m following it. Not a chance in hell. I’d rather be in a pummelled airplane seat for eight hours between Istanbul and Dar es Salaam.