I’m delayed in the airport en route to somewhere that isn’t here. Still, what better excuse to watch and write, as I sit sipping a ludicrously extortionate cup of hot water with flavouring of tea.
Ms Snooty stalks around, nose in the air and a carrot up her arse. Perhaps she’s perfectly lovely... but nonetheless, there’s something repellent about the unhappy set of her haughty mouth.
A lady sits at a table across the café, full of sadness. It’s there in the vague, hollowed lifelessness of her eyes and the lanky droop of her hair. I'm fighting the urge to walk over and give her a big hug.
I haven’t yet heard the middle-aged man across from me speak, but I bet you $20 he’s a Yank. The iPad, loafers, beige chinos and style of his jacket give it away. But more than anything, it’s his face structure, the cap and his affected wife.
The podgy woman to my right is onto me. Full of cheeky grins, twinkly eyes and her chin constantly a-laugh. I like her immediately. A wave of passengers arrive and she embraces the two blackest people I’ve ever seen.
A spectacular example of a handlebar moustache is in direct line of sight. Peter Plumley-Walker has nothing on this guy. I admire his individualistic approach, but I wouldn’t want to be revving up that particular bike at night.
The guy behind me is a writer. I know, because I’ve met him somewhere or other before. This could be a chain reaction: me watching and writing about him watching and writing about me. Just as well it’s time to board.
P.S. I was totally right about the Yank. He just opened his mouth.
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