Delayed. Delayed. Delayed. London, Paris, Rome, even Madrid - every flight to any major city in Europe was delayed.
I tilt back in my chair to check the slowly ticking clock behind the cafe's counter, once again, and time is yet standing still.
I've been lucky enough to find this empty, secluded, little heaven amidst the chaos of angry,
tired passengers downstairs; either scoping the terminal in hopes of finding an empty seat to curl up in, or bombarding the restaurants for an early, but well in need of, breakfast.
I fight the urge to yawn as I fiddle with my napkin from the blueberry muffin I treated myself to when I came in.
That feels like hours ago now, although I know it's barely been 10 minutes since then.
My coffee is still warm in the takeaway cup which I'm surprised by, but grateful for, as I don't think I'd like to spend another fiver on such a miniature beverage - but my guess is,
that's the only way a small business can remain open with such big competitors like Starbucks and Costa at an airport - that's probably where everyone would be flocking to now I imagine.
I feel myself smile at the small piece of origami I've managed to create with the napkin.
Proud of my art, I display it in the middle of the table before sitting back in the leather bucket armchair, cradling my coffee in my lap.