Oh the irony. I used to think one of the great benefits of moving to the UK was its close proximity to Italy, a place I’m going to be spending a lot of time soon (the reason for which you can read about here). How bloody ironic it is then that today it’s taking me thriteen hours to get from Edinburgh to Bari? Far out, if I was leaving Melbourne (on a plane), in thirteen hours I could be in Singapore, or Hawaii or… deep in the Antarctic. Well, not in the Antarctic, that’d be difficult (unless I had a submarine), not to mention a tad cold and wet.
Four of the thirteen hours has me stuck in Stansted Airport. Ugghh. To kill time I’m currently (that was a pun, but you’ll have to wait a few sentences before you can groan at it) getting my jollies rebelling against decent, law-abiding society. And when I say ‘decent’ and ‘law abiding’, I mean English.
Somehow I broke through one of the airport’s mysterious 700 million rules, and not only am I at my gate three hours early – at Stansted they expect you to wait in a not so huge ‘holding pen’ with all the other 6 million travellers, until they tell you half an hour before your flight which gate to run to, and I do mean run – but I’m also plugged into a random socket (aaaaaand groan) I found behind some chairs. Being London, I expect to be told off at some point because geez, there must surely be some kind of Health and Safety rule I’m breaking. Plus, being Ryanair, I also expect to be charged for the unauthorised use of airport electricity.
When I’m bored of typing, I’ll switch to being bored by people watching. I’m always fascinated by the the ‘fashionista’s’ at airports, the ones who seem to think they’ll be stalked by paparazzi at some stage so they better make a huge effort (if that’s the right word) in the wardrobe department. Apart from mismatching, faux-designer crap, they’ve always got some stupid hat on, a real ‘look at me’ monstrosity that nobody would ever actually wear on the street. Or anywhere. Well, maybe Ibiza.
On the total opposite side of the spectrum, there’s the groups of boys off on a lads’ holiday, dressed in shorts and t-shirts, even though it’s currently cold and wet and they’ll be arriving at their destination well after dark. At least these guys are happy and smiley I guess. Unlike the fashionistas. Unlike me.
Then there’s the rest of the usual suspects; the oldies in comfortable shoes and secret money belts on full display round their wastes, the frazzled parents of the rather placid child you just know is going to start screaming the moment they get on the plane, the fighting couple and the bored, pouty teenager with hair brushed so far forward it’s like they’ve been standing backwards in a tornado. And then there’s always versions of me – the moody, jaded old cow who rolls her eyes and sighs loudly at everything.
Ah planes. When am I going to have seen the whole world, decided which bit I like best and just stay the hell put?
Actually, I’m not at the airport anymore. I’m in Italy. In Puglia, the stiletto of the heel if you’re not familiar. I was just pretending to still be there. Well no, I was at the airport when I started writing this, but the guy next to me started snorting really loudly every ten seconds, so I had to roll my eyes and move. Which of course gave him the opportunity to pounce on my pluggage (oooh err). Probably his plan all along.
Anyhoo… so endeth the moaning. Actually the moaning stopped pretty much the second I got to this place.
And so will endeth the writing, for a bit, while I do some shit and soak up the sun, so I have something to
moan write about, which will probably mostly go on this blog, not here, and where hopefully you’ll find some more pictures, and a lot less moaning.
Well… a bit less… let’s not get carried away…