Departed.
And yet again, leaving.
Doors closed, wallet and passport in my pocket, music in my ears. It's 1 am in a bus to Kings Cross and 6 'gangsta' blokes with funny haircuts and mismatched jewelery try to get in without paying.
Perhaps drug dealing isn't as lucrative as it seems. Engine is off, abuse is on, hands are waved and fingers are pointed. Well, the driver doesn't even flinch and cash-strapped victims of unprotected sex are off, searching for another way home.
Sometime later, my train to Luton is typical for a Saturday night. Few 'happily drunk' guys wrestling on the floor between seats, people dozing off, people staring into darkness and me, appleating.
Airport, more apples and an episode of True Blood before departure with Polish crew on the plane. Croatia, here I come(fly)!
