(no subject)
I write in the BA lounge in Manchester Airport, waiting for the first flight to Heathrow and shabbat with my girls. I'm on my third Virgin Mary of the morning and contemplating a second decaf latté.
I flew to Manchester yesterday early. I woke up in a bit of a panic about making my flight, seeing through sleep-dimmed eyes that it was quarter past, and as I got dressed I cursed myself for the folly of getting up at quarter past five to get a flight that was leaving at half past seven. I packed an overnight bag and dashed out the door, jumped into the car and started driving towards Heathrow.
As I drove I looked at the clock and remarked to myself that it had somehow dropped a couple of hours. The foolish thing thought it was twenty to three.
No point in trying to read a dress watch in the predawn. I fished my phone out of my bag.
02:40
Turn the car around.
I took the lesson from my unconscious mind and set my alarm for half past four.
I did the same this morning, checking out at a run, catching the train at a minute to five and plenty of time to breeze through security.
This is important because last time I flew out of Manchester I was detail-searched very, very slowly by an elderly security bod who deliberately and patiently explained to me that I should have put my lipstick in a baggie because lipstick is a liquid. I missed my flight.
This time I packed my security baggie before leaving the hotel. You never know when a rapacious airport operator will decide to charge you a quid for two baggies that they buy from an Asian tiger economy for ten piastres the containerload. They do that at Belfast City.
Either the zips on my boots or my watch tripped the metal detector. I bit back the suggestion that the machine was on too sensitive a setting as I watched them go over each and every person with the wand. The magnetometer can't be a useful investment if it's just used as a shrill fanfare for a pat-down. Perhaps it's just a deception measure to conceal the real security precautions from the punters.
I flinched a bit just now when they didn't call my flight. I ran to a different airline's Heathrow flight and them wandered back to the lounge to wait again.
I'm not an insouciant business traveller, I admit. Maybe some people have time to spare and can view with equanimity the prospect of waiting in the lounge for the next flight, leafing through a second newspaper or doing a bit of work. I have some journal articles to read (in my overnight bag which is stuffed into the galley broom cupboard), but I'm not at my sharpest after a 4:30 wakeup, and reading a few pages while circling over Buckinghamshire isn't the way to understanding.
The wages of sin may be something as straightforward as death, but the bonus of delay is less time for work and family. So with last night's authentic Manchester Saag Paneer still churning my belly I travel with a bit of a twitch, pouring Tabasco into my tomato juice with an eye on the departure screen
and drowsing on the bus
to the long-stay car park.
Set to go home.
Unless, of course, my sleep-dimmed brain yesterday failed to remember to switch off the interior light in the car after a hurried glove search.
Which I have.
A flat battery earns me a 45 minute wait for the RAC, but the wheel of Karma spins quickly in Harmondsworth and a kind airport worker produces a power pack and rescues me. My effusive thanks bring a boyish blush that shames the practised sealed smiles of the stressy aeroplane porch.
I flew to Manchester yesterday early. I woke up in a bit of a panic about making my flight, seeing through sleep-dimmed eyes that it was quarter past, and as I got dressed I cursed myself for the folly of getting up at quarter past five to get a flight that was leaving at half past seven. I packed an overnight bag and dashed out the door, jumped into the car and started driving towards Heathrow.
As I drove I looked at the clock and remarked to myself that it had somehow dropped a couple of hours. The foolish thing thought it was twenty to three.
No point in trying to read a dress watch in the predawn. I fished my phone out of my bag.
02:40
Turn the car around.
I took the lesson from my unconscious mind and set my alarm for half past four.
I did the same this morning, checking out at a run, catching the train at a minute to five and plenty of time to breeze through security.
This is important because last time I flew out of Manchester I was detail-searched very, very slowly by an elderly security bod who deliberately and patiently explained to me that I should have put my lipstick in a baggie because lipstick is a liquid. I missed my flight.
This time I packed my security baggie before leaving the hotel. You never know when a rapacious airport operator will decide to charge you a quid for two baggies that they buy from an Asian tiger economy for ten piastres the containerload. They do that at Belfast City.
Either the zips on my boots or my watch tripped the metal detector. I bit back the suggestion that the machine was on too sensitive a setting as I watched them go over each and every person with the wand. The magnetometer can't be a useful investment if it's just used as a shrill fanfare for a pat-down. Perhaps it's just a deception measure to conceal the real security precautions from the punters.
I flinched a bit just now when they didn't call my flight. I ran to a different airline's Heathrow flight and them wandered back to the lounge to wait again.
I'm not an insouciant business traveller, I admit. Maybe some people have time to spare and can view with equanimity the prospect of waiting in the lounge for the next flight, leafing through a second newspaper or doing a bit of work. I have some journal articles to read (in my overnight bag which is stuffed into the galley broom cupboard), but I'm not at my sharpest after a 4:30 wakeup, and reading a few pages while circling over Buckinghamshire isn't the way to understanding.
The wages of sin may be something as straightforward as death, but the bonus of delay is less time for work and family. So with last night's authentic Manchester Saag Paneer still churning my belly I travel with a bit of a twitch, pouring Tabasco into my tomato juice with an eye on the departure screen
and drowsing on the bus
to the long-stay car park.
Set to go home.
Unless, of course, my sleep-dimmed brain yesterday failed to remember to switch off the interior light in the car after a hurried glove search.
Which I have.
A flat battery earns me a 45 minute wait for the RAC, but the wheel of Karma spins quickly in Harmondsworth and a kind airport worker produces a power pack and rescues me. My effusive thanks bring a boyish blush that shames the practised sealed smiles of the stressy aeroplane porch.