Anxious eyes stare up at the indicator boards. Is my flight there yet? Queues of cases shuffle forward their owners panicking about forgotten passports as they heft heavy bags onto the scales. Is it too heavy? Have I packed any knickers? More queueing! This time at security. Who doesn’t feel guilty in front of a uniform?  Off with my belt; will my trousers stay up? Did I remember to pack my Leatherman in my case not my cabin bag? Will I set off the metal detector? Will I get through in time for my flight? Then the labyrinth of duty free. Is it cheaper than the ‘high street’? Will I be rooked? At the ‘gate’ are regimented rows of seats lined up as though they too are waiting.

An airport terminal might be designed to promote anxiety, an ordeal to be undergone before a holiday is awarded. This one is clean, the floor swept clear of litter, even the loos are pristine.

Where can all these people be going whoever they are? The holidaymakers are easily identified, scantily clad, fractious, with mewling kids in tow. The suited brief-cased businessmen heading for important meeting in Geneva intent on open laptops. The student backpackers in jeans and T-shirts bound for the adventure of diarrhoea in Delhi.

It is a non-place, one where all within wish they weren’t. I wouldn’t be an airport terminal; who’d want to be quite that unloved?