Come back wires, all is forgiven.

Last week airports, a hotel and a convention centre all worked in unison to provide me with glacial, erratic or non-existent internet access. It seems that the 'free' in 'free wireless' is the same 'free' associated with 'lunch' and 'speech'. What I mean is that it is bullshit.

Travelling is aways fun for me because of the stress, delays, bad food and violation of natural law that is air transport (it's right next to homosex on the Pope's naughty list). As always, things of debatable interest happen when I wander through the herds of charmless cattle that constitute my species. Here I will relate some of those things, in words.

While crossing between terminals on an airport train I had to endure, because of the volume, two students discussing their classes. Actually it wasn't really a discussion; one stared vacantly at the train window and merely grunted, while the other barked nonsense that clearly no one, including his companion, really wanted to hear.

"Yeah she was pretty hot for an academic advisor. If I was into the whole cougar thing..." 

My boss and I laughed out loud, not least because the orator looked like he wouldn't stand a chance with a 'pretty hot' woman of any age, especially when winning them over with his personality was so obviously off the cards.

We were delayed by an hour when leaving, because our pilot hadn't arrived. Apparently his plane was delayed. Once he did turn up and we made it into the air, he attempted to reassure us over the intercom: "We shouldn't be too late reaching our destination, because we have a lot of buffer time in the schedule and a strong tailwind, which is unusual when you're flying east". A troubling statement from the pilot when we, the passengers, were under the impression that the plane should be heading west.

On the final leg of the journey, in a tiny turboprop, the fifty something woman sat next to me suddenly asked how I was. The first answer that came to mind was, 'Perturbed that someone I don't know is asking how I am', but I lied instead and replied, "Fine thanks, how are you?" She smiled warmly and said that she had been hoping that a handsome guy would sit next to her. I apologised and then asked, "Are you flying home?" She was, and proceeded to tell me about the local area, her family and her love of the Queen Mother. In fact she was so friendly that on landing she showed us where the baggage carousel was and offered to give us a lift into the city. Increasingly concerned that we were going to end up in her deep freeze, I explained that we needed to stop at the convention centre first to register. This led to my boss and I getting the train and coming across the Pacific Northwest's version of tourist information. A girl with knee-high argyle socks, dyed red hair and Elton John glasses helped us buy our tickets while I shared a look with my boss and tried to suppress sniggers. Oh all important leading 's'. 

The convention centre provided no respite from the assault of the unsettling because cheerleaders were everywhere. Not the astonishing thighed, mannequin faced, devotees of the vacuum that are college cheerleaders, but the potbellied, makeup-by-drag-queens, vacuum neophytes that are highschool cheerleaders. It seems that our week long conference was sandwiched between some sort of event for pushy mothers to live out their dreams vicariously and the national librarian's congress. Thankfully the conference finished and we left before the librarians arrived - I don't think I could have stood all that cat hair in one place. On one day I walked from my hotel to the convention centre, enjoying the fine weather and the vibrant culture the city is famous for, by which I mean a homeless guy combing out his long grey beard in the reflection on someone's car window.

Something that struck me as I sampled the many and varied restrooms at the convention centre and in airports during my journey is the current worrying state of digestive health in this nation. Washing my hands and listening to the death screams of yet another tortured anus, I couldn't help but think that the toilets of my youth had not sounded like rectal killing fields.