Airports

I used to love airports. There, I could blend in, another exotic foreigner globe-trotting, a rich, interesting citizen of the world, (probably) embarking on a fabulous adventure. I have written before of the wonderful romanticism that travel always held for me. Mystery and a sense of endless possibilities evoked the essence of Aladdin, James Bond, Thomas Cook and Marco Polo. (All men). The women were the cause of the travel, muses, beloved, lost loves, and exotic destinations for a male ego stinking to high heaven of Brut or High Karate. Maybe cigar smoke, possibly Brylcream, or extra strong mints. Ready for any occasion, the lonely (for the time being) seasoned traveler smelling of synthetic aromatic concoctions, ever ready for that elusive kiss, despite his poor 1970's dental hygiene, would shuffle his way through oriental markets, arid deserts and secret caves of wonder. It was a cheap teenage fantasy (with some cynical elements thrown in through a revisionist lens) untrue then and even more so now.

I am sitting opposite a young couple and the young woman's mother. There has been an 'accident' involving the 'f******g' boyfriend's water. The *s******g' bag is gone to 's***t'. This 'f********g' holiday was a 'w******s' idea. The said accident necessitates the emptying of the aforementioned 'f*******g' bag and urgent wiping of each item that has not rolled on the floor. The waiting room seats are arranged in rows which make the viewing of such minor dramas easily viewable by hundreds of people. The acoustics are also excellent so that all the expletives are clearly heard by the numerous children watching. I secretly wish that our local theatre provided such exemplary views and sound. I often struggle to see past the gentleman's head in the row in front of me, but here, I am almost an actor in the play. The mother's posterior is helpfully pushing my luggage towards the gate as she genuflects to collect the errand items off the floor. The young woman is texting in an effort to calm herself down, I presume. Her iPhone screen flexes under angry fingers. I imagine many an f**** forming on the shiny display. I hope there is no emoticon for the aforesaid verb.

The boyfriend is munching on his bacon cob (a mere £4.99 without sauce) from the airport 'deli'. I unpack a new set of earphones. My phone battery is flagging, so I just shove them in airtight to drown the swearing. My flight is announced as delayed by an hour in the overhead display screen. I clutch my cross and begin a desperate murmured prayer. I think rocking a little on the spot might help. I get some strange looks. That's ok, it's all part of the journey.