Member-only story
From ’Ghost Queen’
Love you, Zyra
Nightmarish short story, as well as a good laugh
Trouble at Gatwick Airport.
And JFK.
Make that Heathrow.
What the fuck does it matter.
Anyway; there was talk amongst the check-in staff that I was dead drunk; then, that my research assistant, a distinguished British academic in his very late fifties — School of Oriental and African Studies, for fucksake, you idiots — was not appropriately dressed for an international flight.
Why do they waste our precious time ?
Neither charge was remotely true; I’d hardly had anything to drink (less than ten units of alcohol in three hours) and, as far as I’m concerned, my assistant looked reasonably presentable in leather swimming-trunks, tartan bedroom slippers, and a somewhat frayed cardigan-like towelling jacket. Had he been wearing a shirt, his appearance could not have been faulted, and at least his hairy chest and distended gut appeared to be clean.
I was wearing a pair of what I had been told, by experts in London, were seagull-hunting breeches; some fresh rugby boots, and a fashion tee-shirt, with the surprisingly vulgar slogan ‘Football Fuck and Dog Shit’ splashed in big red letters across the chest. I cannot…
