Radio crackle, buzzing, droning of academia

It was one of those mornings. Someone had stolen my morning, actually, and now I was fucked as far as the rest of the day was concerned. Martina's given me another bunch of books. Before, she said, she'll give me the high-class stuff, the Freud and the Marx I've gotta learn something of the world around me, the world-right-now What a joke. She wants me to get a better understanding of the sometimes Earthlings I mingle with.
My plane leaves at 9. I've got a few hours to waste anyway so I call Fielding cancel our dinner and sit down ironically enough with Martin Amis' "Money", a sad story of Joe Person foundering his way through the bustle and chaos of Toronto. Six pages in when I have to leave for my flight.
They put a fucking kid in the seat next to me. It was about time he learned what a drunk looked like. Little bug eyes watched me all through the night, even after I'd come down from whatever the Stewardess handed me. It was a good experience for him.
The cabbie at Heathrow must have been from New York because I spent twenty minutes teaching him how to get to King's Cross and another fifteen explaining where the Butcher's Arms was. I didn't bother hitching a ride to my sock. Maybe Selina was there, but she probably wasn't. I gotta change that girl, gotta make her work for what she's doing to me. It'll wait till I find her. I could crawl home.