Note to self. Never travel on a weekend, ever, ever again! The bloody 747 just didn’t want to take off. Talk of being overloaded, the plane strained, heaved and grunted to get off the tarmac. Must have been the overloaded lockers with ‘hand luggage’. Seriously, why do people need to take what’s left of their life possessions on board? So the mood begins as stupid people try to stuff their stuff on top of mine. Stuff being the operative word. Saturday nights are not for flying, obviously.
Enough children to make anyone cry with despair. Fat people, smelly people, just people I would not sit next to given the choice, but I get them. Flight out, Hagrid proportions next to me, spilling into my seat. Twelve hours later, one curved spine and flinching skin on skin contact as I flop into the aisle to avoid her. I am whiplashed by stumbling, sock footed idiots on their way to that sanctity of ‘everyone knows what I am doing in this cubicle’ pedestrians. Totally belong in First Class but no-one else seems to understand.
Last night was no better. My bonding companion was a young woman who propped the blanket, propped the pillow and popped the pill. Twelve hours of close, hair breadth halitosis which explains the stiff, leaning to the left neck pain this morning. I don’t subject anyone to my quirks, I don’t sleep and I don’t suck face whilst on board. Wanted to slap her a million times.
Adding to the joy of travelling, all twenty flights landed consecutively this morning. Planes spewing unwashed into corridors and UK Border control. ‘Hello familiar person’ – the one directing the fragile like a seasoned car guard – no, stop, don’t move, don’t breathe and don’t get pissed off with me or I will arrest you for abuse.
Shattered, security checked, interrogated, lugging resisting luggage, I am back in London. Flip what happened to the sunny skies of yesterday? If this is spring I missed the memo. But I am back to an empty fridge, no heating and enough washing to re-decorate the flat. Home. From home.
Thanks to my gorgeous buds next door who bought the milk and daffodils to re-instill the human spirit. Survived the Heathrow hustle and ready to dance to my own tune again.