I have not been blogging because I've been away for over a week, and what a glorious week it was. I had been scraping the bottom of the barrel of sanity, searching for morsels of patience, reason and purpose; I was in dire need of a holiday. My threshold was thin, gossamer thin and I was scared that rant would turn into a glorious and satisfying murder. For weeks I had become an insomniac with an eating disorder and not even the sight of my weekly deluxe box of organic vegetables could inspire me to do anything. I realised how dependent the household had become on my usually dedicated culinary habits. Good vegetables were being thrown away, tossed, neglected and forlorn, withered and wilted into the bin. I simply could not have been bothered. The remnants of fast food and the cartons became more common, sometimes piling up as the faces of the inhabitants of flat 192 became increasingly confused and discontented. Grumblings of people being hungry could be heard, when I simply could not have given a fuck. They can feed themselves I thought, I was falling apart and putting myself together again, fumbling with the loose bits and pieces of my being, looking at the stripped components and not knowing what to do with them; cooking was not a suitable therapy.

And what was it that was stripping me down to nuts and bolts? What was it keeping up at night clogging the flip-flop logic gates of my mind? For once I won't blame the seasons, not as we know them, but I will put a lot of it down to the seasons of life. I was hit by a meteor with a celestial body, a comet with a devastating diamond-dusted tail wreaking havoc with my evolution. Let's just call her baby bird.

----oo0oo---

3:00 AM, Saturday 6^th August

The familiar yet distant buzzing of the alarm wakes me and I'm brutally pulled from the stratum of semi-consciousness that I've been skating, the thin ice of floating dreams cracks and I'm plunged into the ice cold waters of the shower. I get dressed, check my bags, passport and wallet; everything's in order. I double-lock the door behind me on the way out, head downstairs and wait in the darkness of Maida Vale, quiet and peaceful as the neighborhood remains blissfully unaware of my movements and I appreciate the fact that I'm invisible and anonymous. My taxi arrives, I get in and tell the driver to take me away, far from here and step on it.

The bus stop is outside Lords and I swear that in the dawn light I can see the shadow of 'It's only Rock 'n Roll' still painted on the wall, a homage to the Rolling Stones. I love London when it's asleep. The bus rolls up, spurts its hydraulic sigh as the door opens, I pay my fare and watch London roll by as I imagine where I'm going. Finchley, Brent and on to Luton.

I've never been to Luton airport before and it's like any other London airport, small, busy and dirty. There are England football shirts everywhere and everything everyone is wearing is blue, red and white. When you leave London and prowl its perimeters, the outskirts, you'll see England, London is not England and Luton is not London. I don't like what I see. The men are rough, tattoos on every forearm, faded, jaded, blurred and run, indistinguishable and there is a serious lack of worldliness and intelligence. I'll be the first to admit that intelligence has got nothing to do with survival, and that in fact you're probably best to have a few IQ points deducted for general ignorant bliss. The women are gritty, they crunch like the grime beneath my leather soled shoes, they're rough as fuck, peroxide hair and mullet haircuts, cigarettes hanging from their mouths, the voices grinding away and their faces haggard, battered and cut from holidays in the Costa del Sol and Greece, like old saddle bags. Their kids are set to become crack addicts and criminals, little bastards with no proper fluency in any language, thugs with shaved heads and fringes that curl over - a haircut fit for an idiot indeed. In between the dregs of humanity is the odd clean looking European obviously going home, making the great escape.

I'm early so I decide to get a coffee, a little bird told me that they have good coffee at the airport and I need it. I get in line. A creature with black greased hair and yellow homemade tints in it, tight snow-washed jeans and trainers that stepped right out of the early 80's keeps trying his luck, he's trying to get in front of me and I want to squash him, I'm waiting for him to make a decisive move before I let him have it. He's a Balkan midget and I'll fucking lambaste him if he tries that one more time. I want to tell him that I'll stuff him with Bulgar wheat and drown him and his family in yoghurt if he steps over the line. He gets the message and backs off. I finally get served and I order a Caffe Latte and watch as the beast behind the counter takes to someone's coffee with a squirty cream gun, it's empty and spluttering shit all over the place, I want to run away, but I can't give Balkan boy my place in the queue. The beast looks at me after a few seconds and asks if I'd like milk in my coffee. I remind her that it's a Caffe Latte. I'm not surprised that she hasn't considered looking for work beyond this dump, beyond serving the primordial ooze that squelches around Luton airport at 5^AM

I make my way to the newsagent to buy a notepad and paper so that I can make a note of the horror I see. I pay and leave and head for the check in queue. Baby bird told me to check in early, these low-budget airlines have a first come first serve, or seat policy. I wonder how many people could possibly want to go to Basel of all places. You’d be surprised. I don’t know what some people are thinking, I’m standing in the queue and some roving crusty with dreadlocks that haven’t been cleaned in years stands next to me and slowly starts edging himself in front of me, I keep blocking him off and I’m not in the mood for his beggar, free-loading antics. If he’s not careful he’ll end up in the vat of yoghurt as well. Eventually he realizes that he’s not going to get anywhere and backs off. Does he really think he’s going to get anywhere faster by not abiding by the simple rule of waiting your place is the queue? Rabid and feral little runt and I think someone needs to domesticate the animal. I check in and make my way upstairs.

It’s like a neon casino up here. People hanging around to go everywhere, by the looks of it they’re all off to Greece and Spain. There’s a hall pumping out the sounds of fruit machines to get them all in the mood, it’s just gone 5 and people are already getting tanked, lager for breakfast, Jesus. I can’t wait to get out of here, on a plane and fly away, forget about the world, lose myself elsewhere. I get stuck into Voltaire’s Candide, it’s a roaring laugh, tragic, but so much so you can’t help but laugh. My flight is called, my time is up, heaven awaits and I pass through, into the light.