It was the usual cold and wet January day as the plane touched down at Gatwick. He was back and full of mixed emotions. It was half-past midnight. The airport was relatively empty apart from travellers sleeping in chairs, cleaning staff and a few security officers. His coach north wouldn't be leaving for another hour and a half so he went in search of a newsagents to buy a music magazine and, after finding the latest editions of Q and Rolling Stone, paid for a coffee then found a seat to relax into.

When he went to catch the coach he found he'd misread the timetable and missed it by ten minutes. He was really pissed about it and went back, angrily, into the airport to wait for the next one which wasn't due for another four and a half hours. He was very tired but worried about sleeping in case he missed the next coach. He relied on strong coffee to keep himself awake and noticed the size of the espresso cup was inversely proportional to it's price. He smoked a lot of cigarettes too, which he wasn't happy about although his will-power didn't stop him from opening the pack of 200 duty-free he'd bought. 'Fuck it!' he thought.

He especially hated the seven hour journey from Gatwick to his home town. He'd made that journey time after time too and the fact he couldn't sleep on planes or coaches didn't help either.
A train and then a taxi ride later completed his return, in which he'd spent the time looking out the windows taking in all the familiar sights.