I'm sitting in the Presidential Lounge of Houston Airport and, to tell you the truth, I feel pretty important...If by important, I mean high on Diazapam. Which I do. And I am.
Upon landing from Guate-ville and in anticipation of my connecting flight to London, I boshed an extra few mgs to take the edge off, but now the flight is delayed. A vague concern is forming at the back of my mind that there is quite a high chance that I will drift off to sleep in this weird first class area in which I have found myself, thanks to the generosity of a stranger and a series of unlikely events.
Apparently, if you press yourself up against the wall of the exclusive members area, a kindly old Jew may see you sitting on the floor huddled over a battered pink laptop sucking on a Twix Wrapper and take pity on you, subsequently inviting you into a muffled world of plush carpets, pastel polos and white leather sofas.
People are looking at me with a mixture of skepticism and disgust. Perhaps a refugee from Antigua wearing a Panama hat and a bemused expression, walking boots swinging from a backpack which has certainly seen better days, isn't your standard upper-class lounge fodder.
Argh! Just got wind that there are meal tickets to be had courtesy of Continental royally fucking everything up. This premature close is probably absolutely the best thing that could have happened to this blog post; having to focus on scraping sentences together through a layer of nostalgia and tranquilizers is not inspiring my inner Pulitzer winner.
With any luck, the plane won't go down over Canada rendering this a pitiful final chapter.
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