I’m sat waiting for a slight to Stockholm in Heathrow’s terminal 5. It’s like being in the future, except an awful future full of horrible people with faces like they’ve just been twocked on the back of the head with a sock full of coins. And the suits! Ohhh, the suits. They’re everywhere. Pinstriped prannocks, one has to say.
There’s probably a point to this rushed entry (rushed not because I don’t want to say things, more because I’ve only got a few minutes left on my £2.99 for 30 minutes of internet). Here goes something trying to resemble a point:
I still have that childlike wonder about me when it comes to airports. They were quite the fixture of my youth, as jet-setting a family as we were. We went everywhere; Tenerife, Greece, Tenerife – you name it! So obviously airport lounges, duty free shops selling shit no one would buy, Boots with its tiny shampoo – they should all still fill me with joy, right?
Well, they do. A tiny bit, so nowhere near as much as when I was wee. But – call me pathetic – they really do. I find them exciting, as you’re always going to go on a plane, which is always ace (though I’m more scared of flying now than I ever was as a kid) and you’re always going to end up somewhere new. It’s clearly how the explorers in the 15th century felt, in their seaport lounges, or whatever it is they had.
I do wonder if they had to go through the rigmarole of having their hair gel taken from them, however. Or their shampoo. It’s not my fault I didn’t actually check how many ml of Head & Shoulders I had. Alright, so it is my fault, but still – I’m annoyed.
Where was that point again? Oh yeah, it buggered off a long time ago. Sorry kids, no image today. Can’t be bothered. And with that, I get on a plane to Sweden.