My holiday is over.

I am in the airport. The Tunisian airport. Isn't it nice that they can put on free wireless in the departure lounge despite existing in a semi-permanent state of emergency and being ruled by an unelected military leader.

Wireless. Now that's civilised.

I hate waiting in airports. A literal no-man's land of nothingness. Well, nothing except perfume and booze. And in Tunisia's case rows of tiny shops filled with camel tat.

I sit here in the full knowledge of going nowhere for the next two hours. Neither forward nor back, hemmed in by irascible men with guns in the one direction and empty tarmac in the other.

We are the only plane today, save for an unofficial forced repatriation of a plane load of refugees from Niger via Libya. Not for them an all-inclusive hotel and free airport transfer, rather angry Tunisian soldiers with terrifying weapons but rather snazzy outfits.

The airport is a pointlessly grand affair, 50 optimistic check-in desks set the tone, vast marble floors and the sort of pseudo-Arab architecture that can only be described as Viennetta chic.

Our scheduled departure is now less than an hour away - but no plane in sight. Literally - there is nothing in the airport except a military helicopter. At least there is not an (ash) cloud in the sky.

For the moment I shall drink in the weather for five hours hence, when I shall scramble through my baggage for something warm to wear.