It's 1927hrs in Doha, and I'm sitting in transit. My flight to Gatwick doesn't leave till 0210hrs, and right now that feels like the other side of the moon. Ordinarily, I'd have gone on a whistlestop tour of Doha (à la Istanbul), and come back for my flight - but I'm bushed. My body clock's been playing tricks on me for the past few nights, and running off into the desert sand won't help. Plus, my watchword while in Kathmandu was "chilling", and I know I did a heck of a lot of that. The end of the holiday isn't the time to break my mantra. I also feel that Doha is a place I'll be coming to again; I'll get another chance, I'm sure.
It's the 23rd/24th, so the airport is like a market place. Expats leaving to join their families in far flung corners of the globe, Arabs perhaps seeking cooler climes. I might amuse myself by buying some alcohol, not because I'm an alchy, but because of the free mini wheelie suitcase that comes with it. I've always wanted one of them, but since I'm generally averse to hand luggage, I never plan adequately for it. I also started reading Kiran Desai's Inheritance of Loss while in Kathmandu, so I'll continue it. The start of the book set in the Himalayas chimed perfectly with my stay in Nepal - neither Doha nor London quite cut it.
1 comment:
You are alive! I can't quite believe it.
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