Bolt

I am off on leave. It’s been a long time in the making. Approximately 17 days off beckon, with only a couple of absolutely unavoidable work dramas to shepherd, hopefully by WhatsApp only.

High drama in the immigration and security hall at Dar es Salaam airport as I went through the motions in the middle of the night. A woman, who wasn’t travelling, bolted shriekingly past the immigration booths and security scanners and up the escalator. Everyone was perturbed and then we realised it was because she’d seen her elderly mother reach the top of the escalator and collapse into a heap of clothing.

A security person lingered around her, trying to get her back ‘landside’. This could actually be a good strategy if you want to do any illicit smuggling. Try the elderly-relative-stricken-on-an-escalator trick, feign horror, rush over, and bury drugs under their shawl under the guise of extricating them from the machinery.

I seemed to be the only person tucking into a cheeseburger and cappuccino at 2am in the departure hall. But needs must when Dar es Salaam airport insists on wild 4am departure times. I believe this is a carbon copy of my behaviour at this point last year, celebrating the onset of annual leave with junk food at an unsociable hour in the airport.

By the time I get back to Tanzania in a few weeks, barring an electoral disaster, the UK will have ushered in a new regime. How exciting that the Tories are facing a catastrophic wipeout. Couldn’t happen to a more pleasant bunch.

By evening time I had arrived in St Paul’s Bay in Malta, via a transit in Istanbul, to my friend Chevaughn’s apartment, where I will stay for a few days. This has a calming view over the warm waters of the bay, with boats bobbing.

Hello, lovely Mediterranean. I’ve missed your vibes.