It had taken until the night before departure for my trepidation to kick in. I had not felt it a month ago. Nor, a week ago. Mind you, my week long farewell tour left me feeling fatigued and weary. In different circumstances, known as feeling hungover, I had been bereft of emotions. And my poppycock behaviour on Thursday night was something to forget. A joint celebratory adieu organised by my close friend Scottish Victoria. It ended in a rather haughty establishment in Chelsea. Raffles, I think it was called. That’s a lie, I know it was Raffles. Living outside of London, Scottish Victoria, with her kind Scottish heart, promised to provide me a spare bedroom for the night.
Three taxis. It took three taxis to get to Battersea from King’s Road. The first hybrid Prius arrived. Six minutes passed. A stutter. A hesitation. “Mister. I’m sorry, Mister Taxi Driver. Would you mind pulling over. For just a minute.” The door opens and out I lumbered. A cough. A splutter. A sniffle. The Prius skidded off. Understandably. An apology to the patient, and now stranded, Scottish host. I ordered a second taxi. A Hyundai Ionic. Two minutes pass. “Mister Driver. Would you be so kind to-“. The Ionic vanishes. I’ll spare you the story of the third.
Morning was announced by the passively rising sun, perhaps in fear of the piercing winter ahead, accompanied by an enlivening Autumn breeze to sweep away any memories of the night before. Out stepped two tender souls. My glaze steadily drew to the earth beneath, leaving me flummoxed. An ejection of last night’s dinner, on the doorstep. Using Occam’s Razor, it wouldn’t take long for a jury to solve the crime between two suspects, but alas, London, my parting gift.
I thought about my trip ahead. I’ve never suffered from agoraphobia but I did feel nervous. Sitting in a restaurant at Heathrow Terminal 3, several flyers sat solemnly by themselves. Reminding myself, I had chosen to take this intrepid trip independently, I tried not to get absorbed by their downbeat demeanour. Often is the case, behaviour and conscience is influenced by those around you. There was much I wished to do, see, and discover. And I thought it only possible to do this, by myself. Feeling sanguine, my pulse increased as I thought of all the activities I could partake in, away from the judgement or denigration of my bubble back home. Pottery. I would craft pottery, a cultural tradition in Japan. No more being sick in taxis. But moulding porcelain bowls and mugs. Oh, I tingled with excitement and innocently let out a squeal. One of the solemn individuals shushed me. And Karaoke. Japan was the home of music entertainment. For those that don’t know, I love karaoke (*see my current shortlist at the end). Although my close friend Alex’s recent commentary of my karaoke wasn’t as rhapsodising as I had hoped. ‘Barely singing at all, just slowly stripping.’ Truly, I was eager to enrich myself in new cultures and the break from the London routine and excessive and enforced drinking was welcomed. The armour would stay on, I shall be decorous, and I shall be zealous to any new activity or skill that I encountered.
I wiped the last crumb from my soft and moisturised chin, caressing the folded napkin from side to side like an elegant ice-skater skilfully performing a bracket turn. It was 6.43pm. My Japan Airlines flight JL044 departed in less than an hour. I had been gifted a middle seat for the 14-hour journey to Tokyo. It was cruel but I would not have morale defeated on day 1. I picked up my bright red Osprey rucksack and off I skipped to Gate 18.
*Karaoke List
- Live It Up by Mental As Anything
- Don’t Speak by Nelly Furtado
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