Evidence of my Neuroticism.

I was finally at the airport. I had two oil paintings with me that I'd completed during my stay there, oils are much different to watercolour and they weren't very good. One was the cupboard in my room for example. I was embarrassed to leave them back at the hotel in case I wanted to stay there again and then the owners would know I'm not much of an artist (I know, it's absurd isn't it?). For the past two weeks I'd been stuffing them in my bag and leaving them in the rubbish bins of various restaurants. At the end of all this I still had two left, but even rolled up they were far too big to publicly discard.

I managed to discreetly drop one in the airport toilet while I was washing my hands; I had about ten minutes until boarding. As the clock ticked I became desperate, I wandered round and saw outside there was a bin there made of metal, actually it was half an oil drum. I went out the other door so I could walk round and enter through the door where the bin was, so that way people would think I was just casually dropping something in passing rather than going out and then coming in again for a deliberate drop.

When I did pass, with beads of perspiration on my forehead, I was horrified to realise that my aim was out, and for one awful moment as my wretched curse of artist endeavour flew through the air, I thought it would land on the floor. It didn't, but it wasn't great that it didn't because the damned thing was much heavier than I would have thought and it made a huge clanging sound. I think it was the painting of my cupboard.

As I walked on towards the entrance I saw two things, one was the immigration officials looking strangely at me, the other was all the homeless people that were sleeping outside, or rather had been sleeping, now they were rousing themselves to see what I'd thrown it the bin. Disaster! It was too late, if I went back to retrieve it now, I'd look weird(?)

Upstairs in the airport restaurant I stuffed samosas in my mouth, by chance surrounded by Catholic nuns... and the terrible image of giggling custom officials coming to my table with a picture of a cupboard and shouting in broken English, 'Is this yours, sir?'

The flight wasn't so bad. I had some new homeopathy that's supposed to deal with intense fear of dying; you can take it every five minutes. We were up in the air and it was working well, but then something went wrong with the electric. The hostesses stopped serving everyone and ran up and down the aisle looking scared, pressing the call-buttons and trying to turn the lights on as the main lights of the plane kept turning themselves off. I would say that the homeopathy didn't work, but then again I managed to sit still and who knows what I would have done if I hadn't have taken it.