I perform too much of a ritual when I am about to travel to pay valuable attention to the eating at all, let alone eating well. Flying elicits all kinds of emotional responses, my brain becomes strangely reflective of the past x number of months since I was last bumping in the clouds. Time slows to a halt, especially in the last couple of days running up to actual act of flying when it becomes an all encompassing sensory event, as if I was being me for the very last time. Insomnia ensues. Mostly because I had spent the last few days caught up in the indissoluble cinema of my life but otherwise, probably because I had spend the final night so urgently packing away comfort items I think I need. The toothbrush, hairgel, the latest monocle, the moleskine, red pants, iPod cable, my faber castells. Then there is the list of would-like-tos scribbled on a note which is next to indecipherable, something which I had hastily prepared during breakfast, coffee stains still very fresh. I fail to see the point of airport fine dining
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