(iii) Terminal airports

The airport terminal is just that in the early hours. Little interest. No distraction. I settle in a worn leather chair and write my fortnightly task. Numbers this time; the number 14. Unusual for a writer's group. The thoughts have been ruminating for a few days. The piece writes itself. Will have to post it on my normal blog.* May pass it to the group to chew over in my absence. Sentimental. My work usually is. 

I realise the real number this time is 42. 42 days between writer's meets. It seems a long time. Almost as long as I've been waiting for this flight. Best get an expresso...

*****

My head rolls with desperate sleep. Tired now, very tired. The motion of the plane promotes lethargy. Catharsis. Rewind the film again. Missed a bit. Some light entertainment about a writer. Hopeless romantic. Hopeless. That reminds me, few words to add to a poem. ***head roll***. Missed a bit. Rewind.

*****

Plane food. Plain food. Strangely rewarding. Like a hot picnic, lots to arrange and open. I wear most of it, consequence of eating with elbows held firm to the rib cage. Procession of thimble drinks. Some hot, some cold. As always a carton of water. The rip-open lid requires just enough force that it washes away the crumbs on my clothes. Clean again.

A snack. Salted nuts. Excellent. The cabin will recycle peanut stench for the next 8 hours. Good job I'm not allergic. Now, on with the poem. ***head rolls***

*****

*Link to 'Fourteen'. My offering for the forthcoming Leeds Savage writing meet. These meetings are held in the Packhorse Inn, Leeds on Wednesday nights from 7.15. Meetings are held every fortnight - (or every 14 days for relevance to this offering)

http://scribbledriveller.blogspot.com/2013/01/fourteen.html

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