18th September 2017
Entering the airport we passed a hapless, morose young man in handcuffs. He didn’t look like a fellow expecting an apology anytime soon.
In security, Tim, toeing off his shoe managed to detach the upper from the sole. Now he is trying to look legitimate as he walks like a small child in his mother’s high heels. Click clack. Skipping a grace note. That or a Monty Python sketch. Or Igor.
Having sailed into Canada, we were wrong footed and reminded of the time consuming exercise it is to get back into the States. Our not excessively long line snaked as though partially comatose. Fuck it. It was boring to live it. Why share?
In the lounge I take soup. Tim takes ‘soup’. Argh. He complains. ‘It’s cold.’
‘That’s coz you’ve got Salsa ya knob.’ I share helpfully. I know soup when I see it.
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