What’s he thinking? What’s he going to do? Did our telegrams make any difference? What hope have we really got? No one here seems to want to talk about it anymore, which makes me feel that we must be completely doomed. We’re just a planeload of helpless hostages with our heads in the sand. Hungry, thirsty, filthy, sweaty hostages. We’ve just heard that a woman in first class has been hoarding soaps and hand creams from the toilets. No wonder we ran out so quickly. No one’s washed properly for days now. It seems an age since I tried cleaning myself with Nivea cream. The clean shirt against my skin made me feel brighter, more optimistic, but that was then. Now I wish I’d gotten out some clean underwear. I try convincing myself that I won’t be here forever—then I realize that has two meanings, two endings. The toilets are unbearable again. It’s gross knowing when you’re in there that everything slides straight down into the open pit in the desert for everyone outside to see.
