Diary Entry: 19 December
I'm sitting at an airport cafe in London City Airport. I ordered an English Breakfast and some scrambled eggs- the latter not likely to happen. I have to be at my gate in 10 minutes, and they've had me waiting for tables and for service, so if the pattern continues I will leave soon. I only realised I should get something to eat half an hour ago. My flight was supposedly delayed until 4, which meant I had plenty of time. It suddenly showed up at 11:30, which means I now will arrive in Ibiza just when everything is closed, so I have to get something now or wait till dinner.
It's been a very strange week. I hit my head exactly one week ago, and although everything remained normal, and my face looks almost intact (though I'm pretty sure broken) I've felt out of it. I've spent most of this time either lying at home, attempting heartsore pilates classes before realising they made me feel like a ticking bomb, or hijacking the sofa of my good friend, a film director, where we've been dissecting French movies and ordering sushi. I found brief moments in between where I cultivated a newfound interest for berets of the French company Laulhere, that I proceeded to study, and I procured a few of them at a good price. Once a collector, always a collector. As if by magic, I was successful yesterday night to get an offer on a pair of headphones I'm selling, giving me some enthusiasm to enjoy the trip without feeling completely empty handed.
I thought I should update you. I'm sitting downstairs at Gate 22 waiting for the delayed flight, estimated departure time still being kept under wraps. There is an adequate amount of anticipation in the air, as much as a LCY crowd can compel. Most of us comfortably seated alongside the gate, except I presume the City Airport newbies, they don't truly belong. I can't wait to discover what I'll dream inside the aircraft, my head is already pounding.
My lunch came too late as expected, exactly on the 20th minute of me having sat down. Which, in any location, is too long of a wait, and in an airport is much too long. They were also so offensive I only swallowed them because I need some protein. The bread was stiff, the food was cold and unsalted. I went to the extent of using ketchup on them, it's the only thing they gave me to take away. Of course, I ate them on my lap while the screen decided to progress from Gate Soon to something else.
Yesterday we watched Reservoir Dogs for the first time. A film that I didn't finish because I had to leave and I don't necessarily regret that. It was good, there were many things about it that I liked: the opposition between the beauty lighting and the violence, the cheerful music and the blood, the seriousness and the humour, the brilliant actors, the beautiful composition. The story I couldn't care less and the dialogue I didn't get half of it, it was mostly a lot of fucks and motherfuckers. It's authentic to itself which is already a plus. And that's it. I think Tarantino improved himself astronomically since. He's pop: I like that. But I think anyone who claims this is his best movie is just trying too hard to be underground (RD is not underground).
I was on the queue and I've spotted a fantastic looking guy, all Alain Delon casual in a bohemian jacket and longish hair and unpreocuppied expression, spilling with characteristics that check all the boxes for me. With a kid, maybe his daughter. If I weren't feeling like a walking dead I would have spoken to him when he checked me out.