I realize I’m in Terminal 2, not 3.
That’s par for the course.
My sense of direction is non existant.
The fight schedule says its 1.10am.
I see a sign for the smoking area.
I go outside.
A few workmen stand around in yellow jackets smoking.
Two people with trolleys with luggage.
I approach one, a woman.
Excuse me, have you got a spare cigarette please?
She’s African American.
She gives me a cigarette.
Have you got a light?
She gives me a light.
I move to a rectangular concrete block seating area and sit on one of the blocks.
Puff on the cigarette.
I haven’t smoked for a while.
I’m light headed.
Haven’t smoked since immigration jail, when it was one after the other.
Fags are cheap in Cambodia. 50 cents a packet.
Here they’re a tenner.
It’s quite a nice place to sit n smoke.
The occasional coming and going of workmen and work women.
The odd bus hisses.
White cop cars dotted about, parked, headlights on.
POLICE in big blue letters.
Like they’re advertising the sunglasses.
On the 17th day of Christmas…
I sing it out loud, quietly, instead of in my head.
My true love sent to me…
17 victims of domestic violence.
16 burning pilots
15 monks in flames
14 murdered journalists, I forget their names
13 blood diamonds
12 tear gassed babies, in Palestine.
11 kidnapped schoolgirls
10 child soldiers
I drag on the cigarette. Blow out the smoke.
9 live organs
8 homophobic hate crimes
7 stolen childhoods
5 child porn rings!
I slow down for the last 4.
4 murdered whores
3 blinded boys
2 girls with acid burns
And a female genital mutilee.
I put out the cigarette with my foot.
I’ll give up soon.
I know the Bond producers want me to stop smoking.
Not good for the 007 image, not these days.
Back in the days of Sean Connery and Roger Moore smoking was still cool.
These days it’s disgusting.
A dont think a 21st century James Bond should smoke.
I get up.
Move back inside the airport.
Spot a Cafe Nero…