Eavesdropping in a departures hall, you'll hear some amazing things

Over the years, I have become a fairly frequent flyer to the UK, and before each trip my pre-flight nerves become worse. By the time I arrive for check-in, I have already agonised for days. I know I will arrive late (roadworks) or not at all (taxis). My luggage will be left behind. My luggage will be loaded, but sent to Latvia. If I do make it onto the plane, I will be seated next to a man with a bottom the size of a cello and a regular cough. And they will serve my drinks last and put me in the middle of the middle row.

But at last, at last, I have found a solution to my pre-flight anxiety: in the departures hall is the compelling distraction of my personal candid camera. I don't drink, I don't eat, I don't shop, I don't read. I look and listen. Have you ever eavesdropped in a departures hall? You'll hear the most amazing things.

Once I heard a mother on her way to attend her sister's wedding in Rotterdam. She was not entirely comfortable about going because she had left her children on the farm with Ouma. "I miss them already," she told me, then dialled.

"Hullo Ma. It's me. Everything okay? What did you give them for supper? Give the phone to Melissa. Melissa, darling, are you missing your mother? Having a lovely time? Yes, I know Ouma lets you feed the fowls in the hok barefoot, but do you know what lies on that ground? Give the phone back to Ouma ."

Another time there was an elegant man, greying at the temples, sexy creases round his eyes . His shoes were Italian and he was looking worried. Dialed.

"Simon? What the devil happened at the meeting? Is that what they offered? Tell them to f*** off." Slams phone into jacket pocket. Takes it out. Dials again. "Simon? Tell them I'll think about it. But I won't be rushed. Their offer is an insult. But dammit, Simon, I need the cash and you know it, so play it cool." Clicks off. Buys a beer and swallows it whole.

A couple in leopard-spotted T-shirts carry a large wooden giraffe from duty free. It knocks a small boy on the head. "Mommy! The man hit me." Mommy rushes up. "Just look where you're going young man."

Opposite me sits a wrinkled, oldish woman with a fractured soul. It shows in her face, her restless hands, her sad eyes. The loneliness of time. She is leaving her children, her grandchildren, behind. She stares into space and orders a gin. Leaving it untouched, she sinks her head into her hands on the table, like a tree bowed by the wind. I want to cry for her. It's the saddest thing: travelling alone with your heart left behind with someone, somewhere.

Some other time, a very old lady sat down next to me. She had three parcels, and arranged them carefully on her lap. "There now. They'll like those." Then she sighed, dropped her head on my shoulder and fell asleep. Our plane began to board, so I tried to wake her. No response. "Granny, our plane is leaving." She opened one eye. "Stop fussing. They've got my number," she mumbled, passing out again. I panicked. Called for help.

I caught sight of them wheeling her onto the tarmac. The last time I saw her was at Heathrow. She wagged a gnarled finger at me. "Naughty, naughty. I nearly missed my flight."

I smiled, remembering that, thanks to her, the jumbo had become impatient to leave. Seat belts clicked on and off. Babies cried on and off. Overhead compartments were opened and closed again.

I never mind waiting. I simply think about all the strangers I have, over time, caught on my candid camera. But if I do have a window seat, another distraction takes over: the dark ribbon of runway ahead, the rush of take-off, the lift into space, twilight drenching the peaks in soft purple and, far below, the lace of city lights winking, then slowly disappearing into the night. Love it.