Still hopeful

I am writing this at Gatwick surrounded by a low hum of activity, some anxiety and the growing need for a large coffee followed by a fag - oh well, one out of the two isn't bad.

I don't what it is about airports and stations that I find so romantic - but I think it has something to with the need I have for stories - all around me here there are hundreds: couples fighting - well,bickering,the lost and the lonely keeping their heads down in case they make eye contact and groups of the young lost in themselves and their exciting worlds. Was I like that once I wonder?

It is the anonymity I like: for these few hours I can be an international woman of mystery waiting to meet  my Ukrainian lover before heading to Holland with thirty priceless diamonds secreted about my person. I could be a ballerina, in pain and broken with the evils that life has thrown at me, still beautiful but fading fast as I skip from job to job, each one a little less well paid, each one in a slightly dowdier theatre. Or I could be... but no, "enough no more, tis not so sweet now as it was before" (Shakespeare again)

So next contact in Toronto - can't wait
xxxx

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