Day 90: I Still Hate Flying, Pt. 1

Here is what you must do. You must have five children that look like trolls, and feed them on sugar and crisps. You must have these children with a man who looks like a slightly bigger troll. You must have long, lank hair and tiny, mean little button eyes. And you must make sure that you furnish all five of your children with crisps and chocolate in the check-in queue at Glasgow Airport, and you must send the eldest of your vile progeny to wait in the other queue, in case it goes faster.

When your eldest brat gets to the front of the queue, they must shout MAM HERE COME HERE LOOK I'M AT THE FRONT. Then you must gather your brood about you, bellow at your husband, and all change queues, shouting EXCUSE ME and wiping your DIRTY CHOCOLATE COVERED MITTS ON MY FUCKING PALE BLUE VELVET COAT. Then you must not apologise, but instead make sure one of your brats treads on my foot and then 'accidentally' kicks the ankle I sprained badly yesterday.

I am very much looking forward to being on the same flight as you.

Day 89: I Am Reminded Of A Word I Had Forgotten, And Taught A New One

Word I knew, but had forgotten: havering, which means more or less the same as swithering (new word learnt last night on the front doorstep).

Both are Scottish (therefore better) ways of saying "pointless vascillation" crossed with "wittering pointlessly" but "havering" has a tiny hint of indecision about it, I believe, whereas "swithering" does not.

Day 89: I Am In Glasgow

Oldest friend, two children, a tiny cat that bites but does not hurt, and a larger, half-wild cat with fangs. We have been out walking around, drinking vodka, drinking mocha so sweet we spat it out, and going to the Turkish Baths. We are talking as well.

1. "Yes, remember him? He took so much coke his hair fell out."
2. "He's like a dog. But a dog that can read."
3. "He gave him a giant turnip off his allotment, and stuck a picture of his face on it for his birthday. No, it wasn't very well-received; he sulked about it outside the bowling alley. No no, not the three-year-old, the man who grew the turnip ... he's forty-three, I think."

It is cold and windy, but good.

Day 88: I Make My Own Toast

The board in the reception of The Royal Station Hotel says 'British Airways' and 'The Royal College of Nursing' in wonky gold letters, but I know differently: it is the Aleister Crowley Society operating under a number of pseudonyms. They have congregated at The Royal Station Hotel, Newcastle because it is Evil, and commonly known to be Lucifer's favourite stop-off point when he's travelling in the North East.

Last night was punctuated by bangs and thumps, muffled laughter and fire doors squeaking. At four in the morning someone knocked on my door, but the hall was empty apart from a fresh stain on the carpet and the smell of burning tyres. I fell into a restless slumber, and dreamt of cars for the fourth night in a row.

Felt pretty perky when I woke up, mind, for there was Hotel Toast to be had. Hotel Toast is in fact the only reason for staying in a hotel. It is cold, cut into triangles and comes in a toast rack. You put butter on it and then either jam or Marmite. It is best with tea, which usually comes in your own stainless steel pot. (I had some excellent Hotel Toast in Canterbury the other weekend, but I was in a splendid frame of mind anyway and may have been distracted by my charming companion, who was trying to eat a muffin made of sweetened polystyrene.)

I was gagging for it, that toast. Forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair such was my haste to get to the 'restaurant'. I ran down endless halls and through seven sets of fire doors, pausing only to snatch a copy of the local paper from the table in reception. I shouted "ROOM 116!" at the Croatian in the tie, and "TEA PLEASE!" at the lady with the Eyes before skidding to a halt at my table.

The Aleister Crowley Society sat around me in clumps of four eating mushrooms and sausage, making secret '666' signs at each other with their hands and laughing quietly. One of them kept looking at me in a Dirty Way. I moved tables and tried to convince myself that I was imagining it, and that the hotel couldn't possibly be evil. Then the lady with the Eyes said, "if you wan' toast, toaster THERE'. See? Evil.

Day 88: I Am Afraid

I am in Newcastle in a hotel that is possessed by the Devil. On the board in reception, it says British Airways are in tomorrow for a conference. But it is not British Airways; it is a convention for Satanists.

I have had to move rooms. The first one they offered me smelt weird and dripped, and was hollow. I am now in a room that is better, but has bloodstains on the floor and a minibar that contains two small bottles of water, two small cartons of Orange Just Juice and two Mint Clubs, which I thought went out of production in 1976. It is very, very hot and the window is stuck.

I think, if I try hard enough, I can push the sofa against the door. Something weird is creaking, and the hall smells of cigarettes and cabbage.