I flew to London last night and tumbled off the plane before dawn. I know I must have dozed off at some point, but I don’t think I had many consecutive minutes of sleep.
Stumbled to UK Border Patrol where I stood at the back of a queue of several hundred people waiting for three agents. We were all half asleep. The scene was like something from a Beckett play. Constant shuffling, no visible progress. Signs that said “No Exit” and “Queue formation study in progress.” Did I dream that? No I think that’s what it said.
“Purpose of your visit, madam?”
“Oh! I’m speaking at the Wellcome Collection.”
“When is that?”
“Do you do that often?”
“Yes. No! What do you mean?”
“You speak often in the UK?”
“No. It’s my first time.”
“What is your profession?”
“Are they paying you?”
Yes. No. Sometimes. “Just for the trip.”
“To the UK?”
“You may go then.”
This is what I’ve seen so far of London: The pillow on the bed in my hotel room. Where like a pillow on a bed, the jet lagged rest their reclining heads. I hope by tonight I can remember what my book was about.