Turning up early in an airport is the Hobson’s choice of scenarios. Whilst one grapples with the crippling anxiety of missing a flight that is worth more than their monthly pay packet, the left side of the brain proffers an ensuing narrative of boredom that will lead you to be situated under an air lounge TV playing not-so-calming whale sounds beneath an exhausted yield of baggage.
It took me four dances around the check-in desk to fling myself at a grope-heavy security. At one point, a flirtatious wink sent in the direction of Juliette, 46, hostess with the mostest, appeared to be a good idea. I now realise that may be the reason why my ten-hour round trip has now become an eighteen hour tour-de-force through Canada, Switzerland, Germany, and… Manchester.
During my delay, I have:
- Searched through my coat’s inner lining to scramble together enough money to cover a fifty-seven cent tax charge on my Whopper meal
- Coated my much-coveted fries in iced tea after finding the appropriate change
- Accidentally thrown the tray away that homed my pathetically half-eaten meal, rescuing it from the bin to an audience of two bemused pensioners
- Sprayed myself with numerous perfumes, accelerating into a light sprint once a sales assistant approached me as live bait
- Sat under a TV that is spurting out a cacophony of whale sounds, as well as a few dodgy moans that take me back to the keyboards in my year eight music class
I first began writing narcissistic blog posts at eighteen years old. I am now twenty-two.
In the past five years, I have learnt absolutely nothing.