Day 90: I Still Hate Flying, Parts 2 - 15

Lucky me! Oh happy day! For Troll Father and two of the Troll Children were behind me on the EasyJet flight from Glasgow to Gatwick. One of the Troll Children kicked the back of my seat, put his flip down tray thing up and down and SHOUTED the whole way back. He stopped when he put his hand round the back of my seat and I 'accidentally' leant on it.

At Glasgow, we queued for an hour to check in. Then we had to take our shoes off. There was only one person on security for twelve gates, which obviously made sense. The entire airport smelt of burnt cheese. We flew around a bit. I attempted to crush the eleven year old's hand using the force of my elbow, which nearly worked and certainly shut the little bastard up. At Gatwick they couldn't open the back door of the plane, so we waited and waited, and then waited some more so we could have our photographs taken and be issued with a bit of paper with barcode on. The luggage belt didn't work, but there was a man with the biggest trainers I have ever seen throwing cases around; happily, he threw mine first, so I Legged It and then got caught in another pointless queue for another twenty minutes. Then the train, then the tube, then the bus, and finally home, in five hours. I don't mind the flying bit, but I hate everything else about it.

Flying is FINE if you have A LONG WAY TO GO (or you are going on business, tra la). But if you are going Not That Far, get a train. Read a book, eat apples, write things on your computer thing, look out of the window, have conversations with people giving out tea; swap magazines, ignore your mobile phone, look at rainbows on the East Coast Mainline, have a kip and wake yourself up snoring. Then get off at the other end in the middle of the place you are going to. It seems straightforward enough to me.

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.