Loopy In London
I feel sick. I've been on the road since the start of the week - Aberdeen, Glasgow, Edinburgh and London - and now I'm at Gatwick Airport waiting for the delayed flight back to Inverness. I've spent seven hours in a hot, sticky meeting room at the Ö÷²¥´óÐã's White City complex. I kept my jacket and tie on throughout as a kind of masochistic test of self-discipline. Shirt-sleeved colleagues - weaklings - remarked that my face changed colour with every passing hour...from peele-wally to purple with various stop-offs along the visible spectrum. I did not buckle. I did not bend. I forced others to raise their voices to compete with my heavy breathing. The meeting - an annual performance review - went well. At least, I think it did. I may have been hallucinating.
Now, however, I feel ghastly and slightly crazed. Not crazed enough to spend twenty quid on one of those lottery tickets for a luxury sports car. But just the wrong side of loopy so that I wander into the gift shop and actually consider buying a set of tea caddies with emblazoned with scenes of London.
I need to get home. Perhaps if I collapse in a heap next to the caviar shop they'll revive me with vodka and send me home in a yellow helicopter.
It's worth a try.
