Airport Madness Meltdown

Monday Madness. Winter depression. Girl dying her hair red in her studio apartment or parents' bathroom in the early hours of the morning.

These forms of madness are frequently discussed and depicted in the media. Do you know what form of madness isn't shown enough? Airport madness.

Wasting away for hours at a time. Body fuelled solely by overpriced coffee and stale muffins - that you didn't even want, but this vessel you call a body demanded sugar. You need to stay hydrated to be well enough to fly, but not so hydrated that you need to use the toilet too much. The toilets are overcrowded, missing toilet paper, and for some unknown reason, your hair feels frizzier in the airport bathroom mirror.

Not to mention the concept of time during these airport madness meltdowns. Time feels non-existent. Pints pouring as the sun rises. What feels like hours is actually mere minutes. People you know with the healthiest lungs are seen buying packs of fags in duty free.

If you could not tell by this almost incorrigible stream of consciousness, I am in the middle of an airport madness meltdown. Manchester airport, I have grown to despise you. Hours I have been rotting here. Fuelled by ice matcha (I learnt today that three in under nine hours isn't the best for me) and people watching. Mainly watching employees closely. I guess we both want to go home? Isn't that where all madness stems from? The need for a place? Do these people - employees - watch others as much as I have been watching them? Do they watch strangers call out for home, cry at the thought of losing a home?

My throat is sour. Eyes heavy. Raining back home. Won't get home until after midnight. Well, after midnight. Our flight doesn't even have a gate number yet. We could've been nearly back home by now.

by; Tori Sheehan