By four in the morning, City Airport was beginning to resemble a refugee camp. The would-be travellers had long ago run out of fuel for their anger and accusations, and now only a noise like a distant waterfall filled the skeleton rafters - the sound of hundreds of people breathing softly in sleep. They lay bundled in coats, huddled against soft cases, and draped over airport furniture. Some still had pouts and scowls etched into the lines of their face, but most slept placidly - like worn out dogs or the sort of babies that only exist in TV adverts - dreaming of postcard beaches and over-decorated cocktails.
Standing in the way of such dreams was a monstrous screen. Six metres of glossy black from corner to corner, it hung like an axe over the heads of the sleepers. On its laughing face were rows of yellow lettering, each finishing with the same gleeful word. As the plastic clock hands on the far wall moved to ten-past four, a chime sounded from the lofty public address system, and a