Boo hoo

As I write I have the distinct pleasure of listening to my uncle, Rupert, guest presenting a radio show on 10Radio.org. Having just phoned in to say hi, I also had the strange thrill of having a third party public multimedia conversation with a member of my family.

When I called and the producer answered the phone, I was aware that I hadn’t really thought through why I was calling in the first place. I quite needed to have a long conversation with my uncle to discuss how best to tackle what is left of my life. Instead, I was faced with the opportunity to communicate with him via a vague message of support, while he fiddles with cds and probably spends the duration of each song, thinking up entertaining ‘radioey’ things to say.

Still, it’s always fun hearing the words ‘this one’s for you’ coming through a distant and familial bitstreamed voice.

So back to England. Israel is sorted now. I had a quick word whilst I was in Jerusalem, and everyone’s agreed that a life of relaxed spiritualism is much better than an intense life of religious warring.

So glad that's all finished.

Currently back home with the parents, mourning a physical separation from my girl.

Sighs.

Mum excitedly presented me with some post this morning. She was impressed that I was receiving post at all, namely formal anonymous white letters, which are simple demands for all that money I squandered whilst at university. I seem to have come to the attention of Team Student Loans as I am 'not identified as having a current record in the UK tax system.’ They suspect that a man without a toe in the tax system clearly denotes a man just itching to pay back the ten grand he accidentally spent on booze and books during three years of decadence.

Ahh, the real world of bills, responsibly and crumbling health. It’s almost enough to make a man get a job and give up on life.

Yesterday’s return to England was one of the darker experiences of my life. Having spent the early hours of the morning thoroughly exercising my tear ducts, I dragged myself through the flight system.

I showed bits of card to relevant people. I stood still at the proper bits so uniformed people could touch me in the relevant places. I walked for miles, past all the shiny things in the distant direction of some promised Terminal. I waited. I sat. I followed appropriate instructions.

It was all passively bearable, like a long, wordless dream (with inflight earache).

Until I boarded my Madrid – London connecting flight. I was seated by the window and immediately next to me was a three year old child. Immediately in front of the three year old was his one year old sibling. Their hideously irritating parents insisting on always seating them NEXT TO ME. I just wanted to sleep the journey away but their children insisted on making so much noise and insisted on prodding the one man who really just wanted to be left alone so badly that day.

I was trapped in an airplane. It's in the top ten of places you shouldn’t scream and assault children. (Two: outside school).

Anyway, on landing to London, completely exhausted, frustrated, depressed and a little murderous, I was faced with probably the last thing I wanted: a paranoid airport.

“Ladies and gentleman. We have landed in London Heathrow, but I am under instructions not to let you off the aircraft as there has been a security alert.”

At this point, I knew that my day as I had imagined it had just been deleted.

I had another fist-aching forty five minutes spent trying to ignore two children only inches away from my fists.

Then FOUR HOURS in a waiting room surrounded by the Great British Sense of Humour. Lots of sarcasm and banter with despairing members of security. Me, despairing, half sleeping, hiding in the corner of the room.

Anyway, no matter how many flustered mobile phone conversations took place with people worried about flight connections and missed appointments no one in the room could even feign a moment’s worry that we might actually be under some kind of massive terrorist takeover.

We all just correctly and calmly assumed that an of ‘terrorism’ had taken place. An act of italicised, inverted commas. An act of enormous incompetence, paranoia and over-reaction leading to a monumental fuck up for a few thousand unlucky people, incarcerated with each other, then left scrambling in an ugly holocaust of baggage collecting.

So I got home eventually with a lift from a dedicated father who was also at the mercy of the baying crowds on the reverse side of the security process, in Arrivals.

Today it rains.