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I'm back in Copenhagen. It was quite an uneventful journey home. I felt a peculiar sense of detachment while I was waiting in the departure lounge at Stansted and started jotting some things down in my notebook. It's amusing the sort of reaction you get once you affect a writerly posture. Sat there, pen in hand, gazing around at the tourists, occasionally noting down my impressions, I mistook myself for a genuine flaneur and not the pretentious tool I actually am! Some glance at you worriedly, perhaps suspecting that you're writing about their heavy bellies. Others ignore you with professional disdain but most pass by oblivious....tbc.