Changi: Part One

I am standing up. My hair is looking very similiar to the way it turned out when they backcombed it for the music video. I am pretending it is some kind of 'style', but really it just hasn't been brushed for about twelve hours, and has developed a sort of eighties tribute thing of it's very own devising. I am leaving it to it.

I actually can't quite believe I made it this far. Heathrow was just mind-blowing, I have never felt so at sea when travellling anywhere in my whole life. At one point I was standing at the back of a thousands-strong queue, waiting to be security checked, five minutes before my flight was due to leave and I just thought, oh, fuck. I knew, and we were all telling each other, that of course they weren't going to leave without us. Of course not, but when you've been standing in a car park for an hour already having checked in, and having walked for fifteen minutes to get the the back of the line, logic is not on your side.

I could go on for ages about that five hour check in, but I have six minutes left to write on this post. When I finally sat down on the plane I had such heightened anxiety that I had a rash all over my arms and had licked my lips so much that they hurt, and I had no lip balm. It was not allowed. I have mild OCD about lip balm, and, after crying to myself quietly for a bit, I eventually asked the stewardess for some antiseptic cream, ostensibly for the rash but actually just for my lips that were getting more and more red.

Now I am at Changi airport in Singapore, with about eleven hours to kill.

I will no doubt do updates, but right at the moment I have no idea whether it's ten in the morning or two in the morning and I need some coffee and some time to reflect on what I am even doing in this huge air-conditioned place.

Coffee. Lipbalm. Hairbrush.