The art of queuing

As a recluse I couldn't bear traffic. It had nothing to do with jealousy, I simply disliked people, crowds, anywhere, except at my readings. People diminished me, they sucked me dry.

The plane lands at T3 and there’s a huge queue of folk trying to get to T5. It moves fast enough, and surprisingly there aren’t any queues at T5 security.

We board the Edinburgh shuttle only to be delayed by a leak in the braking system. An hour later we’re getting off the plane while they ready another one. I take the opportunity to have a shower and a meal.

Departure is three hours late, but I’ve been in constant contact with my taxi driver and he’s just arriving as I leave the terminal. He takes me through a grey, messy countryside of patchy frozen snow, mounds of dirty ice, and streaming rain.

I light the fire and fill the washing machine. Claire arrives, and we have a cosy evening.