My workout this morning consisted of forcibly pushing my old, bust, lawnmower over tufty grass, although afterwards I did manage to do 4 km in ten minutes on my Ellifit elliptical cross-trainer. I looked at the dial. It showed 120 heart rate, and told me I was going at 24 km an hour … really? Because I was starting to have dreams of the 5,000 metres at the next Olympics.
However, another consideration broke through and I realized that would not be a possibility, as I feel I don't really look cool enough in those running shorts!
OK, enough frivolity. For today's snippet from my book, I have chosen the opening paragraphs of “Amsterdam”. The story is fictional but my experience pushing tobacco down the chutes is real, albeit many, many years ago. It's what you do when you're stuck abroad and need the fare home.
“He sat in the lounge of the bar at Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport and watched the departures screen flick over the flight numbers and destinations. It didn't really change much, and he wondered if it was automatically refreshed by a timer, or was there ever any actual progress to report, to lighten the leaden, boring wait of travellers.
Opposite him sat a friend whom he had not seen for many years, but due to the chance meeting of today, here in the airport, a fellow prisoner of the waiting lounges. They had shared a drink and reminisced about earlier, more penniless days.
“You lived or stayed here for a while years ago, didn't you?” his friend threw out lazily, the boredom of the airport pressing him to find some subject for conversation. He looked out over the aircraft, all neatly tucked against their accordion tubes, joining the craft to the body of the building. He wondered casually about the materials used, but it was of little note. He turned back towards James and refreshed his thought.“Yes, ... you lived here, right?”
~ Author of fiction