Week Thirty Two

Heathrow: An Explanation

Currently, I'm in a hotel in the middle of London with my daughter who has just managed to delete the last story I wrote. I liked it. It was weird and off-beat. It talked about how you always know you're in the international terminal because the violent cacophony of smells attacking your nose will let you know that the many tourists who've sprayed too much perfume all over themselves are within convenient proximity to the Duty Free Shop.

But the story itself was one of obsessive curiosity. A man watches as women after women enter the woman's washroom, but none leave. None. And he starts to freak out about it. He even looks at what's happening architecturally - perhaps he missed something. But no, these women are disappearing into the women's toilets and no one seems to care. And the story ended with him opening the door - and committing the cardinal sin of being a man, that of never entering the women's washroom. And in truth, I didn't know how to end it. I hadn't figured it out. I almost think I would have just let it go blank. Let the reader write the ending in their heads. 

But the fact is, it's lost. It was fun, it was entertaining, but it's gone for ever. And so this is my first week without a story. At least a "real" one. I don't blame my kid, she didn't know what she was doing. But I do blame myself for typing this up while an excited two year old want to go out and explore the city.