The Human Stain

The stink had become unbearable, and a visit from the regional manager had spurred a frantic note to empty the bins. I grabbed the bulging bags and began the long journey to the bowels of the airport.

[An interesting digression: one of the bins has been pushed up close to the taps on the water cooler, and half eaten sandwiches, banana peels and other mouldering forms of detritus overflow into the drip tray. Stockton now refers to the water cooler as The Ganges Delta...]

I managed to get about halfway to the skips before disaster struck. In a fit of laziness, a member of staff had place a half-full (or half-empty) cup of very milky coffee into the binbag. It remained undisturbed until I entered the trade lift. At first I felt it on my leg and I looked down. It wasn't a leak, it was a full-blown eruption, springing from the plastic bag and landing directly over my freshly laundered trousers. God knows how long it had been there, but it filled the lift with a putrid smell. I had been in half an hour and already I had been caught in a stagnant tsunami.

I only mention this because there has been, ironically, a drought of coffee in Terminal 1. The main retailer has closed, leaving two other places. In one, the coffee tastes of lukewarm Bovril, and the product of the other passes directly through the human body as if lubricated. There was only one option, use the benefit of a security pass to access the shops in Terminal 3, a place I have never been on "work business".

It was an odd experience. I had entered the exact opposite of my usual environment. The people seemed friendlier, the passengers more relaxed. There was a general atmosphere of calm. I ordered my coffee, and chatted to the person serving me. I felt myself changing. I was my own twin, an optimistic, polite, calm and satisfied person, not the saggy-eyed misanthrope that I usually am (this got me to thinking about that old myth that everybody has an evil twin. In a moment of harsh clarity, I realised that I am the evil twin, that my double is the one who you could take home to meet the parents. Christ...). I began to feel uncomfortable, all the people smiling, laughing; there was no-one even raising their voice, or looking annoyed with anything. My jeans were beginning to itch, a nagging reminder that I didn't belong with these people. Without any more thought, I grabbed my coffee and scurried back to Terminal One, entering back into the dim, hot comfort of familiarity.