Emotion is something that affects only sissy limp wristed liberals, or so I thought.
The farewells at Perth this afternoon seemed sadder than usual, somehow more poignant. Bro had trotted south to the Blues festival at Bridgetown the previous afternoon so it was Mary and her two fine boys who were at the airport at crunch time. The last words lost in the background babble but the hugs and kisses all to real. We’re not usually huggy touchy people, so when we are, it means that something very special is going on.The realisation of the time that would pass before we’ll all meet up again, far too tangible. Even in these days of cheap as chips flights and comms as easy as eating curry on a saturday night, at such times, Blighty really does seem a long long long long long long way from Oz.
Such was my emotional 2 and 8 that the normally straight forward passage through security was more adventurous than normal. I managed to leave the laptop and my wallet at the ‘unpacking’ desk and leave my toilet bag (with its embarrassingly large collection of things fluid) in the cabin baggage. This foolishness set off the alarms with the bag scanning people who, unlike their charmless dimwitted counterparts in London, clucked their sympathies at the obviously prematurely senile idiot before them and provided him with a very fine plastic bag to make all things legitimate. Thank you Perth airport people.
I write this from Bandar airport in Brunei where I have just logged on and discovered, on the BBC website, that the 3 metre storm surge yesterday afternoon has not catastrophically flooded East Anglia and low lying areas in Essex, Kent and Yorkshire. Part of me is happy at this news, oddly and perhaps alarmingly, a bigger part of me, is dis-appointed. That must be a reaction due to my current emotional state.
On a happier note, I feel I must quote here from an episode of ‘American Dad’.
"I’m not drunk. I’m tired from being up all night drinking!!" Wonderful.