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. Continue reading