I adore Hong Kong airport – every seductive curve and virginal white walkway of it. It is sheer aeronautical perfection. If it were a woman, it would be Penélope Cruz. Sadly, it doesn’t love me back. In fact, it hates me with a vengeance.

My suspicions of unrequited love were first stirred last year, when the airport shut the main departures hall bookshops where I would dreamily flick through magazines preflight, and replaced them with vacuous fashion boutiques for moneyed morons. I never bought the rumours that this was a political move to stop homebound mainland visitors snaffling up subversive literature. It was clearly a personal snub intended to deprive me of my essential in-flight reading (generally Mojo, Budgerigarand Razzle).

This autumn came the cruellest cut of all. The airport decided it’d had enough of me hanging limpet-like around in its cathedral-like spaces by nearly doubling the price of long-stay parking from HK$660 a week to a gasp-inducing HK$1,110.

Gone forever is the illicit pleasure of driving around and around Car Park Two searching for the last space at a taxi-trumping price of HK$300 for the first three days and HK$90 a day thereafter. Now, by some feat of inflation-defying logic, those prices are HK$470 and HK$160.

Why, oh, why, I howled, as I performed handbrake turns across the deserted car park, dodging balls of tumbleweed. It’s been five years since the last price rise, the Airport Authority later emailed me, and long-term spaces are in short supply. (“Were,” I corrected them.)

“We hope the adjustment can result in better resource allo­cation and encourage more travellers to use public transport,” they droned on. Well, I’m sorry, but that’s twaddle. It’s another cynical ploy to dampen my irrational airport ardour.

I trudged dejectedly into a Cathay lounge. Here at least was an oasis where I could feel loved, wanted – pampered even. Then, before I could order my first strawberry daiquiri, I heard Christmas carols tinkle cheerily over the sound system. It was October 10. Horror-struck, I fled.

The airport is a wanton mistress. First she took away my magazines. Then she took away my parking space. Now she wants to take away my sanity. To paraphrase 1970s one-hit wonders The Motors: Airport, you’ve got a smiling face. But you obviously want me to fly from another place.