So wrote Alain de Botton in the concluding paragraph to his book ‘A Week at the Airport’, his implication being that is what we think when we book a holiday. It isn’t. I know this. And my fantasies of escape shame me. The escape I require is really from myself, and this, sadly, cannot be achieved, no matter how far away I fly. This is where I have been planted, and for now must make the best of it. He says it’s the cold, and that it is bringing me down. Possibly, this is so. Possibly.
