Christmas Day in Gatwick
Date: 25.12.2020
Time: 19:42
Location: Gatwick Airport North Terminal, London
I look out across the empty terminal floor. There’s not another person in sight. To my right, the long row of easyJet self-check-in machines is equally dormant; their blue screens unanimously declaring that AT OFF PEAK TIMES THIS KIOSK IS SUSPENDED. They look very much like the blue screen of death, which supposedly denotes fatal malfunction on one’s PC. They say that shade of blue has a negative psychological impact on those of a certain generation, as they’ve come to associate that colour with the anguish of their computer going kaput, and thus have developed a Pavlov-style aversion to it. Though, seeing as my source for this particular titbit of information happens to be ‘they,’ you can probably tell I’ve had some difficulty determining whether or not this phenomenon has any clinical basis.
In any case, what I’m currently observing may be more accurately described as ‘the blue screen of dormancy’, as evidenced by another permanently-on screen declaring that ‘Bag Dop Will Open 2.5 Hours Prior To Departure’. The hues of blue seen on the screens are not uniform in colouration, some radiating a darker shade of azure than others. I suppose this may reflect the relative levels of dormancy experienced by each kiosk at any one time, cycling from deep sleep to the REM phase, darkening and lightening at each stage respectively.
Machine subconsciousness or not, are still nine hours remaining till they need be awakened for the receival my baggage anyway. Hence, I have an ample sufficiency of time in which to contemplate such things- and to do my own recreation of what one particularly erudite BBC-comedian once called ‘that film where Tom Hanks is stuck in an airport’.
As there’s plenty of time left, I’ll start by describing my first encounter with one of the many unique characters who happen to populate Gatwick on this most festive of days. He took the form of a security guard.
Spotting me from a distance, he made a beeline for my vicinity, his serious expression only thinly veiling the great pleasure he was about to derive from his role as interrogator supreme. Sherlock began his detective work by asking me when my flight was.
‘Err, around eight. AM.’
‘Planning to stay at the airport overnight then?’
‘Basically… yes.’
My humble answer appeared to meet with the guard’s approval, and, satisfied that the likelihood of my engaging in any terroristic activities was suitably low, he moved on with his business, taking his valuable attention elsewhere. I am yet to figure out what about me might’ve aroused his suspicions. Perhaps, for security reasons, he was merely engaged in some random quizzing of lonesome passengers. If this be the case, then he certainly has a lot of variety to choose from, the incomprehensible Lacoste man being one such individual.
At my perch by the kiosks, I observed a man who seemed to be in his fifties, with a harrowed, weather beaten look, short stature, slim build and wrinkled complexion which betrayed a look of roughness, offset, though, by a new-seeming pair of Lacoste trainers on his feet. He peered at me as he passed, before carrying on his way- his movements very jittery and troubled.
I then decided that I was in dire need of nourishment, my water bottle having long run dry and my hunger returning on account of the measly tub of soup I’d in Costa earlier. After traipsing back to the ground floor, I discovered that, lo and behold, the only place in the whole airport that sold food was shut. Three armed policemen stood outside the darkened, shuttered edifice, as if it couldn’t be made any more uninviting. On the way back up, I bumped into the Lacosted man from earlier.
‘D’you know where the… C****** is?’ he mumbled, in my general direction. I don’t redact that word because it was vulgar, or even rude, but because I just had no clue what it was he’d said. I asked him to repeat himself and, once again, he asked me where the ‘C******’ was. His accent rendered the word completely undecipherable and I was no closer to knowing what he was on about than I had been before. After the third attempt I gave up trying to understand the man, and directed him to the policemen in the distance, assuring him that they’d have more of an idea as to where the location of the ‘C******’ was than I did. All I remember about the word was that it began with a C, or possibly or a K. Maybe if we meet again I’ll ask him to write it out- the key word there being if. Then again, attempting to wring any kind of comprehensibility out of that guy is probably a lost cause. Hopefully, he found what he was looking for.
Run-ins with strange blokes aside, the objective of the expedition -to acquire a meal- had failed, and I was no closer to nourishment than I had been ten minutes earlier. I acquiesced on the impossibility of finding food for now (time for one of my “Involuntary Intermittent Fasts”) and set my sights on acquiring some agua- if that was at all possible. Back on the first floor, a black vending machine was tempting me over, not unlike a distant -suitably astronomically- branded cousin of the black monolith from 2001. Disappointingly, this machine contained no precious water, so I journeyed on. Reasoning that my next-best bet was the humble tap, I went in the general direction of the toilets.
Under the sensor waved my hand, down the lukewarm water came, and up the water bottle filled. This was after a few minutes’ worth of running the tap in the vain hope that the stream might adjust to a more appetising coolness. Try as I might, the lukewarmth did not abate, though the liquid itself did taste relatively drinkable. Apparently, the average drop of Thames-derived tap water has passed through the human urinary system seven times thanks to retreatment, though seeing as I heard that fact a while ago, the number is now probably closer to eight or nine.
After this I set off to find some more diversions, of which the chapel was one. Empty, of course, there wasn’t much to say about it, apart from the fact that they’d already laid a new social-distancing carpet, complete with instructions for Covid-compliance. Returning to the check-in, I noticed another black vending machine taunting me from across the floor. Eyeing up a pack of four Oreos confined within (price: £1), I keyed in the appropriate code, paid, and just like that racoon at the start of Over the Hedge, delighted in the sound of calories dropping to the tray below. I paced back and forth as I indulged in the biscuits a few metres away from my luggage. I then heard, to my great annoyance, an unpleasant noise emanating from somewhere close by. The source of this sound- I soon discovered- was a man descending on the escalator, complete with wife and children in tow. ‘Is that your bag?’ he demanded, pointing to the offending article. ‘Yes?’
‘Make sure you watch your luggage,’ he commanded from his elevated perch. Had the escalator continued down into the depths of Hades -complete with descending man on board- I would have been highly amused.
‘I can assure you I will,’ was my rejoinder to the loftily issued instruction. As the man was soon off the infernal escalator and had disappeared out the door, I didn’t get to see his facial reaction, and he certainly didn’t provide a verbal one. I continued to munch and pace back and forth, contemplating this exchange- soon coming to classify it as a missed opportunity. In an ideal world, my response would’ve been something along the lines of ‘Well, seeing as I didn’t plan on dumping it, I don’t think that’ll be an issue!’, or perhaps, ‘Oh, thanks for telling me, I would’ve just wandered off without it otherwise!’ Had he admonished me for being cheeky, I could perhaps have helpfully reminded him to worry about his own bag before being so quick to interfere with mine. Alas, I wasn’t sharp-witted enough to produce a comeback like that, so he had to settle for my more tepid take. L’esprit de escalier mécanique
The final conclusion I’ve drawn from this (unsolicited) encounter is that universal effect of the “SARS-CoV-2” -to give it its scientific name- pandemic is that it’s given busybodies a free license with which to meddle in other people’s business: from the upper echelons of government down to the geezer in the street- the perpetually descending man being one such personage.
After gorging on another of the monolith’s fares in the form of Walker’s salt and vinegar (primitive ape-man approve! And no, I’m not talking about Gary Lineker), I sat down next to it. On the other side of me was another anachronism of sorts, a computer with a pay-as-u-go internet service (price: 10p per minute). I suppose nobody told the good people at ‘SurfBox’ that the airport has surprisingly good free Wi-Fi. Then again, the computer does have a printing feature, (price: £1 per page) which does have the potential of being extremely useful. ‘You get nothing for nothing’ to quote my dad, though if you really needed to use that printer, I’m sure you’d be more than happy to pay.
One character who seemed to pop up every few mintes was a portly gentleman in a navy suit. He had the upright look of a staff manager about him- perhaps he was ex-forces. His eyes peeped out from the top of his mask, casting me an examining glare as he conducted his transection the forecourt. After observing my un-commissioned form for a sufficient period, he executed a ninety-degree right turn and continued along past the row of kiosks, looking left as he did so, as if they were his squad of troops, and he were marshalling them to attention.
Since the start of my time at the bag deposit I’ve had two different people ask the same question. The first of these men approached and started giving a long-winded spiel about how he’d booked a flight to Barcelona and wanted to find the Vueling information desk. I sent him upstairs, which seemed the most likely location; though I still have no idea where it actually is. I think I heard him talking to a real member of staff a few minutes later, so hopefully they re-routed him successfully. The second bloke didn’t even know the name of the airline he was flying with. ‘It’s “Vue” or something like that?’ he asked half-humouredly- I gave him the same directions. I was evidently starting to look quite at home. Speaking of directions, I had the chance to observe one particular gent from earlier on whose sense of direction was, you could say, a bit muddled…
Date: 25.12.2020
Time: 09:03
Location: St Margaret’s Bus Station, Leicester
In the Uber on the way to the station, I was a little anxious of being late for the coach to London Victoria. Once I’d arrived there, I was to get the change to Gatwick. Thankfully, the coach pulled up just as I was walking to the stop. Perfect timing!
Before being allowed on, the conductor would scan the barcode on your ticket, take your temperature, and place your bag in the ‘hold’. I had two tickets for my two journeys in email format- but only the second had a barcode. Assuming the barcoded ticket was what the conductor would want to see-and that it contained the information for both coach trips- that’s what I showed him. After scanning it and shaking his head, the conductor informed me, quite matter-of-factly, that I’d booked the wrong coach, as the passenger code I’d showed him wasn’t on his system. I assured him I’d booked a journey from Leicester to London a few days ago, but he wasn’t convinced.
This was bad. I’m sure that at any other time he might’ve let me off with it, (or on without it?) though in the age of super-spreaders and track-and-trace, that just wasn’t going to happen. After a thorough perusal of the email, however, he spotted my other ticket nestled away at the top. He saw its code, -which matched- entered it into his system, and I was free to board.
‘You showed me the wrong ticket.’ the conductor frustratedly informed me. I apologised, and once my telling-off was over, I finally boarded. All-in-all, it was an easy fix for someone who knew what they were doing, but I still got the impression that I was the villain of the piece for having held everyone up- the conductor hugely disapproving of my lack of nous and worldly maturity.
Just before we were due to leave, a lone straggler appeared clambering up the steps of the coach. He was an American -or Canadian perhaps- with a pale complexion and black snapback cap, over which went his hood. He wore a hiker’s backpack, and seemed like he could’ve been a happy-go-lucky kind of guy; guided primarily by Instagram, living his ‘best life,’ and letting ‘the universe’ take him on his life journey as it saw fit. If this is, indeed, his guiding philosophy, then I would politely suggest that he not let the universe have such an impact on his decision-making – the reasons for which we shall now see.
His problems began at quarter-past. We were supposed to have left five minutes ago, but the man was still having a heated debate with the conductor. He must’ve had a ticket of some kind because he got on the coach, though why he’d booked it in the first place, I’m not so sure. The controversy seemed to centre around his choice of destination, or, should I say, destinations.
I couldn’t really hear what the American was saying, but his spiel included something about a girlfriend (I’ll believe it when I see it) coming to either meet him or pick him up, which would presumably mean he wouldn’t have to take the coach. This went on for so long the driver was forced to make a decision, and issued an ultimatum to the man: either stay on, or to get off.
On, he decided, and we finally got going. That was, until the first turn, which saw us going back round to the stop we’d just left from. He must’ve wanted off again at the last-minute, so the driver took him back to the start- but, oh no- by the time we got there he was staying on after all! So we set off… again. And we came straight back round to the stop… again. After the third time this had happened- the man being no closer to reaching a final decision, it was half-past and the conductor was on the phone to security.
‘I’ve got a man here who wants to go to London, and he wants to go to Nottingham!’ he shouted to the security man on the other end of the line, who must’ve wanted a good explanation as to why he was being bothered at half nine on Christmas day. In the end, the poor bloke must’ve realised he was causing a scene, and that getting off was the only way of diffusing the situation. The conductor just seemed relieved that his nemesis had eventually made a decision for the benefit of us all. ‘Thanks mate. I appreciate it’, he said, visibly grateful that the commotion had finally come to an end.
Now, there is a chance that this man suffers from some form of mental illness. One must not get the impression that I’m making light of his circumstance and possible condition. Not being an expert in the field, I can’t provide a comprehensive diagnosis with any degree of certainty: Dissociative Identity Disorder? Schizophrenia? Asperger’s?
Who’s to say? Perhaps he was just extremely confused, or living out The Clash Should I Stay Or Should I Go? lifestyle to the extreme. Maybe his mind was the scene of some raging internal battle, this being the way in which it manifested. ‘Covid is driving people crazy,’ someone once told me. Today, that may very well have been the case.
Upon alighting at Victoria, I once again came face-to-face with the conductor. As he took my bag from the hold, he handed it over to me and beamed a big smile, saying ‘Thank you sir, Merry Christmas!’- and I don’t suppose it was just the festive spirit that had changed his perspective on things.
Back in the airport, my further wanderings wielded few results of interest. I eventually found a vending machine that did sell bottled water, though by this time the tap was yielding a colder, more refreshing liquid. I wondered that maybe I was finally fulfilling my Tom Hanks destiny, becoming one with the airport as it slowly melded to my needs. Airport-symbiosis or not, this experience was starting to feel a lot more like Groundhog Day than Terminal.
As I was walking along, a thought came to me: how come airports aren’t full of homeless people? They’re warm, dry, have food supplies readily to hand and plenty of well-to-do punters passing through 24/7 (well, mostly)- they seem like the perfect place. It then occurred to me that, in many instances, airports actually are the home to many down-and-outers: Heathrow, for instance. Last time I was there, I observed several beggars asleep in the terminal. They even had a business of sorts; when you’d finished with your trolley, a homeless person would invariably appear, offering to take it back to the rank, with the goal, of course, of acquiring the pound within. As an income stream, it probably isn’t going to cover the rent and broadband, but it’s probably enough to buy at least one square meal a day with. Calling them ‘beggars’ maybe isn’t fair then, seeing as these cast of the homeless were more entrepreneurial in spirt, though in terms of the social hierarchy, they must not rank much higher. Heathrow is maybe home to the upper class of homeless people- that is, the ones who can afford the bus fare to get there for a start. I haven’t encountered any such persons yet in Gatwick. They may be elsewhere on Christmas Day, or perhaps have all just been ‘moved on’. Maybe the beggars themselves don’t fancy it; the stingier Gatwick customer providing slimmer pickings on the trolley front, and as such have decided to pursue their meagre economic interests somewhere closer to central London; not like that’s much of a challenge, geographically speaking.
I’ve had chance to observe a police sniffer dog at work at various locations around the terminal. The breed was what one might call the ‘classic’ British detection dog- a brown and white English Springer Spaniel. This one darted about the floor at great speed, with the efficiency of a working dog carrying out the role it had been carefully honed for its whole life. When the hound approached my bag, its handler called it off.
‘Flying tomorrow?’ he asked (that was that handler, not the dog, by the way).
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you supposed to be going?’
‘Where I’m going to, is Gibraltar. Supposedly.’
‘Good luck.’
I feel the policeman didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my mildly caustic tone. I suppose I still had some pent-up quip-energy leftover from my earlier exchange with the luggage man. The policeman was only doing his job after all, and, if anything, was looking out for me. Then again, his dog didn’t sniff anything of interest in my bag, so he couldn’t have been that disappointed in my conduct.
After an eternity of waiting, I’d finally lasted long enough to come within the mystical two-and-a-half hours before departure, and was able to deposit my bag. A few of the kiosks had been awoken from their blue slumber into an equally monotonous state of white and orange wakefulness. Once my passport had been examined for proof of Gibraltarian credentials, (‘He was born there,’ the attendant declared) I was free to check my bag in. Much fuss was made over my eligibility by the woman who appeared to be in charge, and demanded to know of my legality with an airof much authority and self- importance. Her overall style of leadership is what I would describe as ‘bossy, yet inefficient’. Anyways, we’ll return to her later.
All throughout my journey I’d been paranoid about the weigh-in. According to the scale, I was barely under the limit, forcing me to do a last-ditch emergency decanting of heavies into the hand luggage just in case. When it went on the airport scale, the bag ended up being 7.5Kg. Must’ve been looking at pounds by mistake…
Before being let through to security, I was told that I had to report to ‘the left’ to have my documents checked. Being in possession of no travel documents other than a passport, I was somewhat apprehensive. Having once again gone through the ritual of passport examination, (‘If it says Gibraltar on the front it’s calm blud’), I was handed a little strip of paper with ‘Documents OK’ written on it, and herded in the general direction of the departure-lounge.
After being disappointed by the lack of vegan options on offer (I’m not exactly sure why I should be feeling any surprise at this) I set to wandering this new habitat. Thankfully, before long J.D. Wetherspoons came to my rescue at 0500 hrs, serving me as the first customer of boxing day- what an honour. I was also honoured to be woken up by one of the waiters after I’d started dozing (I had set an alarm, by the way). When I told him my flight time, his cheerful response was ‘Oh, don’t worry, that’s ages away!’
That time eventually nearing, I camped myself in front of the departures board to get first wind of the gate. My studious scanning paid off, as I was the first to arrive, a feat I count as a major achievement in life. The fact that there was about ten of us in total made it slightly less of an acheivement, but I’ll still count it as a win. Sadly, though, my good mood was not to last for long.
The lady who’d been running the show at the bag drop was back and better than ever. When she appeared, her colleague called out ‘Loooiiiisssss!!!’ as the bossywoman in question waddled her way down to the desk. Unlike the cabin crew, who are chopped and changed regularly, these ground staff seemed to know each other very well, which resulted in them exhibiting a cliquey over-familiarity which I found deeply unpleasant to behold. I supposed these were the ones who didn’t make the grade to get airborne; a fact that makes their subsequent conduct all the more understandable.
‘Can you scan your boarding pass please?’ asks bossywoman. I scanned it twice by mistake. ‘Passport now please can I see your passport?’
This impatient demand was well-saturated with great frustration and ‘my time is too precious to be wasted on the likes of you’-energy, which was surely bred by having to deal with incompetent and stupid passengers such as myself on a constant basis. Upon the revelation of my passport, she spent a little while examining it through the Perspex screen, with what seemed like a thinly-veiled expression of disgust on her face. Evidently in need of a second opinion, Bossywoman turned to her colleague dor a second opinion on this grave matter of my passport.
‘Val,’ -she started at a very leisurely pace- ‘their passports are meant to say GIB but his says GBR he has the wrong passport.’ The startling news of my apparent illegitimacy engendered a lively discussion between the gate staff -from which, I may add, I was excluded. Eventually, an expert was produced who revealed the crucial piece of information- that if the passport said ‘Gibraltar’ on the front, we were to be let on. When bossywoman was satisfied I’d met this new condition, she complacently waved me through, this delay no-doubt originating from the fact that I was a disorganised, incompetent passenger. We were then channelled into a holding pen- or at least that’s what found it was when I walked to the end to find the door locked. ‘Is it open?’ I called to the staff back at the gate.
‘Can you take a seat please!’ came bossywoman’s latest instruction, clearly not lowering herself to dignify my silly question with an answer, seeing as it was -of course- the most obvious thing in the world that we weren’t to carry on through yet. It was so obvious, in fact, that they hadn’t even told us!
It was at this point, as more passengers started filtering through, that I began to receive confirmation that I really was returning home, the assuring tones of the Spanish language washing over my eardrums like a two-day-opened can of San Miguel being poured down the plughole. Then again, this might not be such an equitably constructed simile. Entrusting the dignity of Spanish to the likes of Andalucía and Gibraltar is probably not unlike entrusting the pronunciation of the English lexicon to the residents of Birmingham or Liverpool -or, yes indeed, Glasgow. Not the fairest of representations.
As I was contemplating these linguistic intricacies, I noticed a young woman ferociously rummaging through in all the nooks and crannies of her bag and pockets. Upon realising that whatever she was looking for was no longer there, she ran to the gate shouting ‘I’ve lost my Spanish residency card! I can’t get into Spain without it! I had it when I went through security!’ in a very panicked English accent. She wanted back through to look for it, though, it has to be said, her chances for finding the precious card with ten minutes to go were very slim. Bossywoman and Co had another lively debate on the merits of granting her wish- and, indeed, on how she was allowed through without her card in the first place. These developments precipitated a further hubbub of Spanish jabbering, as a translation of these dramatic happenings was conveyed to the Iberians still in possession of their cards.
I don’t think I ever saw the woman-without-the-card again. Assuming it never turned up, she must’ve made the value-judgement that it wasn’t worth being stranded in Gibraltar with no possibility of being allowed into Spain, and didn’t board the flight. One would’ve thought that if she was on the Spanish system, and had some form of ID with her, she’d be able to convincingly vouch for her right of passage. I have no idea how accommodating the ‘Guardia’ would be of this little contravention of immigration regulations. Maybe she just plain wasn’t allowed back through the gate without appropriate documentation? Not so bad if she didn’t have all her prized possessions in the hold. How she’d get her case(s) back, assuming they were already loaded- I have no idea.
In such situations, I often find that sympathy isn’t very forthcoming from the random man on the street who has all of his affairs in perfect order- so she can have mine. Before Covid, you could usually board a plane without a boarding pass (if you’d booked- obviously), or, of course, without residency in the country of your destination. But, in these Covid-infected times, even the slightest mistake or unfortunate circumstance can send one’s trip (or, even life) into ruin. If her card was indeed nicked or misplaced by security, hopefully she can get compensation. If not, I hope she was able to return home safely- maybe to her American boyfriend waiting back in Leicester?
When we were in the air bridge, I overheard two groundcrew engaged in conversation. ‘Is it alright?’ asked the first. The second, only just emerging from some stairs started, ‘It’s — ’ then abruptly ceased after turning round to notice the waiting passengers. He didn’t say much after that. Despite this reassuring (not really) exchange, I’m not afraid of flying, and here’s why. Assuming an engine fails, the aircraft can limp along on the other one until a nearby runway is found. Even if they both fail, the plane won’t just fall out of the sky. Like a giant paper plane, it’ll gently glide back down to earth, where it’ll in a soft turnip field, or the sea, where -as we know from Sully- it won’t sink, but will happily bob about till rescue arrives.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
Before long, all fourteen of us had boarded- oh, wait, make that seventeen! — as the Cavalcade trio of mother, father and Spanish baby miraculously appeared to save us all from the drudgery of a quiet flight. I wasn’t keeping count, though it took no more than three minutes before the crying commenced- and they were sitting close.
Putting my snide remarks aside though, they actually managed to calm the baby down pretty quickly, and she was very good for the rest of the flight, only emitting cries on a few occasions. Even still, they definitely weren’t the most annoying vocalisations I’d had to deal with on the journey.
I couldn’t tell if I’d slept on the plane or not. Seeing as I’d been on the go for twenty-four hours at that point, it wouldn’t surprise me if I had.
The arrival to Gibraltar is always interesting when the wind is blowing easterly, because the plane has to go round the rock to land into the wind. The aircraft makes three ninety-degree right turns to get there, and on the last of these manoeuvres, the distance from the water below and the shaking of the fuselage gave the distinct impression that one is going about ten miles an hour on the verge of stalling. Fortunately, we didn’t.
Back on terra firma, I only had one major obstacle remaining between myself and the Covid-free tranquillity of Ocean Village, and it was a formidable one- the Gibraltarian bureaucracy. I didn’t have my red ID card on account of it taking so long to make. Then again, I managed to get in without one the last time back in June, albeit with a little bit of an unfriendly welcome, which involved dealing with one particular customs officer who was being a bit, shall we say, difficult.
‘Are you a resident of Gibraltar?’ he asked, after my passport had been approved.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have your ID?’
‘No.’
‘Why don’t you have ID?’
‘I misplaced my card.’
‘Have you filled in the form for missing ID?’
‘No.’ I told him my new one was in the process of being delivered.
‘Well, I can’t let you in then.’ Apparently, my passport did not count as conclusive evidence of Gibraltarianness. ‘Is there anyone I’d be able to call who can help?’
‘Ghostbusters,’ came his ingeniously crafted response. This bloke probably still refers to his regular shopping destination as ‘Safeways’. I asked this with somewhere like the immigration office in mind- a place that could provide me with evidence of my citizenship in lieu of an ID. It now seemed that wasn’t an option. Fortunately, I’d planned for such an eventuality and produced a bank statement with my address on it. The officer took it to his supervisor, who must’ve taken kindly on my humble plea for admittance to the Rock on which we stand and let me through. With the final decision on my entry reached, I was waved through with indifference. The officer clearly knew he could but delay, though at least he’d had his fun in doing so. Thankfully, this particular customs git’s reign of terror had come to an end, as I was never once asked for my ID card -red or otherwise- as, quite obviously, the issuing authority on the passport made it redundant. That is, if anyone’s able to find it.
Date: 26.12.2020
Time: 11:30
Location: Gibraltar International Airport, Gibraltar
So, there I was, nearly at journey’s end. As I walked through carpark a man called out asking if I’d be needing a taxi. ‘No thanks.’ I truly knew I was home. The voyage had been long, and was beset by minor inconveniences such as tiredness, hunger, and boredom, though in the end I’d count it as a success. There are others who’d had it worse, so I couldn’t really complain.
The coaches were a pleasant surprise (once I figured out where the heating vents were- that’s above, for your information), the flight was on time, and even the airport provided some amusement. I’m sure that staying in the Premier Inn would’ve been comfier and more convenient (and far more somniferous), but I don’t think it would have been as fun to write about. There’s something to be said for unpleasant experiences making for better memories. There is a reason, after all, that the ancient Chinese expression of May you live in interesting times, is cited as a curse and not a blessing, and it’s safe to say that we’re living in some very interesting times indeed.
JM
