Newcastle airport

I have 15 minutes to wait before the plane I am meeting is due to land. It is icy outside but fortunately there has been no snow here today. I have a mug of Starbucks coffee and a plate that, until a few moments ago, held a slab of chocolate chunk shortbread. The shortbread is currently in my tummy, save a film of grease that it deposited upon the tips of my fingers; fingers that are now skating rather to easily across my notebook size qwerty keyboard. I use all fingers when I type, something I have my mother to thank for; she taught me on an old Imperial typewriter when I was bored one long summer school holiday. Even a coffee at an airport cafe sparks reminiscences.

In front of me is a large, cone-shaped artificial Xmas tree. At least, I should be very surprised if this object had ever had real birds perching on its branches. The decorations look tired. The lights are boring. This is Christmas just because it has to be so, in a public space in England, at this time of year. The building is as high as a half-decent church, so I guess a good designer or decorator could do quite a lot to pretty things up. Still, there would probably be no cash for that in these times of austerity, and Christmas is a slightly tricky concept in a multi-cultural society.

Waiting on a cold Thursday evening

I have discovered that the arrival of the plane I am meeting is delayed by 40 minutes; it could be a lot worse. I am having some difficutly in controlling my body temperature. If I put my wooly hat on, it is too hot; if I take it off, it is too cold. The mind appears to be down-geared by the process of waiting, as boredom kicks in. I have become the sort of person who thinks about his woolly hat. At this point, in an act of desperation, I turn to my Kindle and Bleak House, by the wonderful Charles Dickens. Speak to you later, my dear blogophiles.

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