From kerbside to check-in desk it is mere struggle – suitcases, wheelies, wobbly trolley, sweaty queue. Then present your passport and e-issued boarding pass. Take both back from beaming check-in staffer and proceed into the gaping jaws of the god security.
The whole point of security is to ensure no one carries a dangerous item, least of all an explosive. This is so that the terrorists never win. What are they talking about? The terrorists have already won. Without tightening a single detonator they have cost us all, as passengers and staff, billions of man-hours performing useless functions.Your safety razor will be confiscated even though they are purchasable in the shopping mall a few feet ahead.
Half your toiletries are for the chop because they are not small enough. Like a defeated nation of PoWs you strip off shoes, belts, jackets, raise your arms and proceed on command.
The Irish nun ahead of you is duly frisked even though the old biddy has been observed as a skeleton on the X-ray and no one has yet clobbered an airline skipper with a rosary. Then at last, re-assembled and re-dressed, you are in the mall. Do they want you to fly or just shop?
Enough bars to ensure the seriously thick can get well plastered and become a menace throughout the flight, the more so as the flight will be delayed and enable the slobs to tank up yet again.
One last crawling queue to boarding door – more presentation of ID and then flop into your seat. Strap in. Watch the other parked airliners slide past as Tractor Joe down there shoves you onto the taxi-track and your thoughts stray.
To the sun-drenched garden you left behind, the awning-shaded patio, the gambolling puppy now puzzled for a week, the right to have a nap without being told to straighten your lounger, the bee-buzz drone, the peace and quiet.
Now perhaps you can understand why, despite blandishments of a week on another lounger by a Mediterranean beach with half the human race, I chose to spend my 81st last Sunday in the garden with the CO. Ah, the gentle joys of the English summer.
The more the Sunday supplements seek to bedazzle with exotic treasures and pleasures far, far away, the more I just think: been there, done that, even the t-shirt has got holes in it. You stop off for a Heathrow X-ray, I’ll do just fine right here and Boris can give us our country back.
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Post time: Sep-28-2019