I can never sleep the night before a flight, especially if I have to be up early - with just one exception - the night before flying home for good from Canada ( OK - get over it already) and last night I was back to the typical night before ´something´tossing, sweaty self.
Different reasons each time since each trip carries different import. For e.g. the night before flying out to St. Kitts on a family break from the ridiculousness of the Canadian winter, in other words - the flight out of despair, I worried myself silly all night over a) missing the flight (always the most innane one and yet...) b) fearing the record amount of snow (it was the coldest, snowiest Canadian winter for 60 years - and my first...of course it would be...) and c) the house burning down with all our travel documents in it. In the end it was the car that played up. Dead battery. But after shaving 5 years off life expenctancy we did eventuallly make the flight and a wonderful holiday ensued.
Today I´m off to Madrid to sort out a banking issue and see the family as a sort of aside (meet the Condes first before you judge the order of priorities...I dare you). I am anxious to get the money side sorted and to be fair it´s my money so it will be sorted whatever the bank would like me do with it, but that still doesn´t stop me from becoming, as Sausage Boy calls me "Scenario Queen". He´s right of course. Since the whole Yoga and meditation thing took off, I´ve been pretty good but the old broken foot having reduced both activities to at best sporadic frequency, well it just goes to show that if you don´t use it you not only lose it, you stomp gorilla like into the jungle of relapse - the thick and tangled part that eventually kills you after years of sobriety.
When I wasn´t fretting over scenarios A, B or C, I was watching odd memories on a mental ticker. At one point laughing out loud and quickly having to cover up the madness with some self effacing comment or other (in the pitch black while Jim Jam King sighed and hurrumphed) but really I was remembering the lengths one friend will go to to get laid. I´ll leave it at that. This was followed by a recollection of a woman being, how shall I put this, lingually pleasured on a bar stoll in a pub in Islington one New Year´s Eve. Pure class. Thankfully this is a 2nd hand story - I wasn´t there. No theses are places for the truly depraved of which somehow I count many of my closest friends.
My night of cold turkey was not in vain however because on arriving at Victoria train station, glancing at the screen with flight information, I noticed an inordinate amount of flights had been cancelled out of Gatwick. Ah well, it´s nice I wasn´t tossing and turning for nothing then. But in for a penny as they say, I rumbled onto the airport towards certain nightmarish hell of queues and disappointment, of this I was sure when -imagine my surprise - one of the only flights leaving London that day was mine. Well, this unnerved me no end and I became convinced, as I literally floated through check-in and customs, practically carried through on the shoulders of the customs monkeys with what I was now determined was the pitiless step of a Greek tragedy, that I was to become a ´ made for TV´ disaster story of the girl who having overcome her demons got on a flight that proved the rule: never fly over an erupting volcano.
For that is indeed what had grounded all the other flights: volcanic activity in Iceland! You bastard!. Not content with plundering the savings of half of Europe, you go into cultural and land liquidation - and now this!! You wanker!! Easyjet may never recover. I did make it to Madrid but I may be stuck with the Condes forever - I´d rather spend an eternity wiping Bezebul´s arsehole over having to live with those snaggle toothed old crones - kind and generous as they are. I live for the nightly news now - I mean at some point the volcano will snuff out right?
Still, the bank paid out. It´s all too much. I´m off to the clammy embrace of another sleepless night.
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