After 26 hours travelling, whatever is left of me is finally back in London. I’m tired, a bit nostalgic and of course, jetlagged. I hate jetlag. There’s not much difference really, just four and a half hours, but that’s good enough to keep me awake at 2:30am even though my body is begging for mercy. Can’t blame it, I haven’t got any sleep in almost 2 days. Why, you ask? Well, I can’t sleep on planes, that’s why. I take off my shoes, place the little pillow behind my head, put the blanket on, recline the seat, close my eyes and wish with all my heart I get some sleep but I always, always, always fail. I have even tried listening to Coldplay and I must say, it almost got me there once, but in the end it was useless. I can’t sleep on planes no matter how hard I try and that inability has unchained a nasty aversion towards people who can, particularly those who pass out just minutes after take-off. I don’t know how those bastards do it but it makes me terribly uneasy. I look at them while they sleep and I swear to God sometimes I wish they snored themselves to death. Well, not really, but you get the idea. I just think it’s very unfair some people can sleep on planes while I can’t. Maybe they take sleeping pills. Yeah, it makes sense, maybe that’s why the pass out so quick. I could easily enjoy the benefits of chemically-induced sleep too, you know? I could sleep the whole flight without worrying about crying babies, fat snoring men and restless kids singing christmas songs to their proud parents, who probably should tell them to shut the fuck up because a) no one cares about their stupid carols anyway and b) there’s people on the plane who might want to get some sleep without the help of any fucking pills!
Fuck it, I’m going to bed.