Postcard from the departures lounge

Whenever I get to an airport I have a sudden sinking feeling that I've had a moment of madness and got the day completely wrong. Or the time. Or the whole darn thing. And just before the check-in clerk prints the boarding pass I imagine she'll say, "excuse me sir, you're in the wrong airport," or the MI5 will swoop down from the ceiling (a la Mission Impossible Tom Cruise), declare me a terrorist and subject me to unspeakable acts of torture. Since 9/11 (or what is technically 11/9 here) I imagine that every brown man suspects even himself of being a terrorist - like he just didn't realise he was, or he forgot. And though I've packed nothing more sinister than an excessive number of hair styling products I am convinced that I'll by flying to Atlanta via Guantanamo Bay.