Room 536

'Could I, uh...I'm in Room five three six, I wonder could you tell me if I'm checking out today...five...thirty...six... That's right, three six. Five three six.'

I will admit that I had expected someone who worked in a hotel might be able to keep a grip of perhaps one room number, now and then, but I won't be snappy, that would be unconstructive and would not reflect my mood. I have slept for two blank hours—nearly two and a half—slept through, I can only assume, the whole of my head-related distress and every threatened intimation of death and doom. I am quite fine now and, had I been calmer, I would have known—the whole source of my earlier trouble was tiredness.

As I let myself be comforted, there comes a dull clunking on the line—perhaps the receptionist playing with loose teeth. She mutters a name.

'I'm sorry, who?... Oh. And I'd have to check out at twelve?... Eleven?'

Why do they do that?—Twelve is bad enough, but now everybody wants you outside in the snow by eleven. Try checking in before five and see what it gets you: a bloody lecture: your bags in a cupboard somewhere until it's dark: that's what. 'In that case, could you be very kind and give me the room for another day?... Well, no, not give. Just...the usual arrangement. You have my credit card?... You do?'

Good. That's a good sign. Cash is a bad sign—credit is good. 'Then that's all very fine then, isn't it? That's all extremely fine.'

Above the window comes a laboured thunder, like a broad stone being rolled in overhead. I get up gently, examine my view.

Dove blue clouds, a gold edge to them and spindles of light behind. Nearer there is a fat concrete tower, topped with the scoop of a radar dish, revolving, and a runway and the slanting rise of a plane, charcoal-coloured. Another stone grinds by.

Which is disturbing. I could swear that I'm on my way home, so why am I still at the airport? Reproachful on the felty, dun carpet, my bag is waiting—it can usually explain.

Dishevelled contents, the clothes have been worn. Still, they seem to be nobody's clothes but my own and—

I need to be sick, immediately.

Thank God the room is tiny—it means the en suite facilities are close.