Surreal

Life has taken a surreal turn. Five hundred of us queueing up, no room at the inn, no flights and only three staff at e airport late at night to try to sort it all out. A taxi ride into Munich with a young Turkish chap who took a photograph on my phone of the blood moon we were headed towards as he was driving along (it just came out as a little dot, but the autobahn looks good). We got to talking about music, and I told him about the student a couple of years ago who was a really good Sus player, so he put on some of his favourite Turkish music and talked about his home town and the food back home. 'Germany has no kitchen', he told me.
I had to brush my teeth with Orla Kiely body wash because I threw away the remains of the toothpaste, thinking that I wouldn't need it. My mouth was fragrant, at least.
The hotel breakfast was fabulous- I ate mountains of fried potatoes and grilled zucchini, followed by a nice lump of plum cake, then rolled up to my room to slob about until it got cool enough to go for a walk outside (it's still boiling here).
Then I had to go to buy clean socks and underwear (I hope you don't renege on your promise to pay for all this, Easyjet) and was looking for a bookshop but couldn't find one. The current detective novel isn't going to last that much longer- but I suddenly remembered that years ago, I put Desmind Coy's very colourful memoirs on to this iPad, and reading about his exploits has been a great laugh today, punctuated by some Turkish kitchen, washed down with a glass of bitter black tea and a handful of cherries from the fruit shop along the road. Desmond is the older half brother of Don Letts, and has had a lot of scrapes. You have to ignore the ones to do with women if you're a female reader, but there is plenty of other stuff to enjoy, especially since he has lived through so many differmt musical eras and met a lot of people before, during and after their fame.
I hope there are no storms tomorrow. I want to go home.