Maroonned in the First Class lounge at Gatwick with hours to wait for the next flight to Malaga. Listening to endless 'power conversations' from VIPs in disguise - "What I need done is as follows..."; "I have no idea at all why he wants a meeting..."; "I told them plainly: London isn't Istanbul..." Conversations whose import is clear, but whose purpose one will never know.
My true-love is trying not to guess why our 6 a.m. flight was cancelled, and whether the technical faults the nice BA woman mentioned could be catching. Is technology out of control? Is disaster contagious? Could this be the end? We sit, counting planes rather than sheep, anaesthetized by champagne. Resistance is useless, I think, knocking back another glass. Life is a metaphor after all. The final destination is oblivion. Being together is what counts, I add.
She snuggles up on the sofa. "Do you think we'll make it?"
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