I'm leaving the country on Sunday, all of three nights away somewhere cold and northerly and Stockholmish.
While I'm looking forward to it, the prospect of Dublin Airport at any time fills me with the fear.
It's more a resignation to my fate, a realisation that soon will come baggage checks and charges, queues and queues of bastardly queues, carousels and passports and the fear that I've lost my boarding pass.
Airports. Fuck. I hate them so. I have a peculiar phobia of Sky Clowns, them with their remarkable poise and painted faces and 'have a good trip have a good trip have a good trip.' Remarkable poise. Not natural. Freaks me out. Fucking Sky Clowns.
Still, I'm a sucker for a place where winter meets efficiency. A place where a few sheets of snow doesn't mean shutdown. I've never been to Sweden before and it will be good to get away from all matters Kildare Street and the couch, this couch, with its unrelenting grasp of my person.
It's been a long time. September 2008 saw my last time out of Ireland, the culmination of several trips to Europe that had me walking around, alone, pretending to be a lot more interesting than I was, to nobody in particular.
Paris had the best of me then, Vienna the worst, but two years and a bit years down the line I'll be swapping such solitary confinement for the stories of my elders.
It will be worth a couple of airports.