Just before I travel I always feel an anxiety that borders on illness. A short period of pallid sweatiness is usually followed by an embarrassing amount of twitching and bouncing. This wasn’t helped this morning by my friends’ insistence on joking loudly about bird strikes and watery landings. Once I’ve begun however this feeling is soon replaced by boredom. This was how I spent most of my four-hour journey from Ipswich to the Holiday Inn at Heathrow. Now I’m sitting in my plush hotel room with a bag full of junk and electronics thinking about getting through customs tomorrow. On the underground I met a young man who worked for some sort of clandestine Christian agency. He said he had flown on 77 planes last year, collected sick bags and was about to ferry his boss over to the US for Obama’s inauguration. He seemed worried that I made odd little films.
Tomorrow I’ll be in San Francisco
