The flight was so early it was hardly worth the bother of going to bed. Instead I took the last metro to the airport and sat up through the night on a hardbacked chair with a dog-eared Dracula and jazz from the 24-hour Starbucks.
Things started moving around four. There were flights to Spain and Amsterdam, Faro and a many-syllabled Greek resort. People had dressed for holidays not for home: tight-fitting shirts over beer-bellies and tattoos, baggy shorts and rubber sandals, football tops with nicknames on the back. The air outside was as cold and grey as old tarmac. I fell asleep as soon as we hit the sky.
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