Peter Farrington flies home. A short story. Warning: This story may contain elements of truth. ********************************* 9/12 as the Americans would say. Turkey. An airport. It was hot. Very hot in fact. Peter has a low tolerance to heat. Actually, he has a low tolerance to most things. Well people really. Deep breath, best foot forward and in he went. This is a combat zone. The first mission presented itself straight away. A security check. A bank of conveyor belts running through an x ray machine. Place your bags on the conveyor belt, walk through the arch and away to the next phase of the battle. In military terms, this is just barbed wire. Peter is a champion queue dodger and has held the Huyton - with - Roby record for downright impatience for over 35 years. Only Russians and Italians come close to Peters ability to weave to the front. He quickly weighed up which attendant looked the cleverest, which line had the least pensioners, prams and walking aids in it and opted for the far right. Line 4. He was cooking on gas. He was going to get through this line and steal a march to the check in desk where the holy grail of airline travel might lay. Extra legroom. The line was functioning well. The carefully chosen assistant who Peter had dubbed Turkish Tracey on account of a slight likeness to Tracey Ullman was getting the job done well. Bags on the belt, contents of pockets into a grey tray, walk through the arch. Easy Easy. Line 4 is storming ahead Peter thought. He glanced at lines 1-3. Pathetic. Populated with cripples, families, people who wanted to take their time and chat to their fellow travellers. Amateurs. Team 4 all the way and then it happened. Our very own Northampton Town in the League Cup. A disaster of epic proportion. We had a rogue in the side. An interloper. A failure. The Stuart Sutcliffe of queues. He was there. Two ahead of Peter. Stage 1 put your bags on the belt. He managed that okay. Hardly a Commonwealth record but reasonable enough effort Peter thought; even though he had not postioned the handles correctly for a smoother collection in no mans land ( presuming he survived the x ray ). He was still within Peters tolerance level. Like ELO and Wings. The stick was in the spokes. The stupid, irresponsible git had not taken off his belt in anticipation. Turkish Tracey was certainly not delighted on this occasion. She had her arm outstretched with her palm facing upwards and her fingers, tight together moved up and down in a classic Barbara Woodhouse impatient beckoning motion. A labrador that was expected to bring back the ball had stopped for a pee and Barbara needed to sort it out. What did he do? Fumbled. Thats what. With a mobile phone, a cheap comb, and an Adidas velcro wallet ( you just know then dont you?) in one hand he attempted to remove his belt singlehandedly.No help whatsoever from his wife. The accomplice. Peter glanced left. Teams 1-3 were running well. They were catching up. He looked again at the rogue. Was he a rogue or a hapless oaf? A rogue for now anyway and he was still fiddling with his belt. His back firmly to Peter rendering the stare option impotent. Peter knew that this was losing valuable time. Maybe a whole half centimetre of legroom ? Mrs F shot a warning glance at Peter. He was in no mood for her easygoing patient ways now. He was going for an early shot. A semi audible For Gods sake was uttered in his best exasperated tones. Mainwaring. Mrs Rogue felt the vibe. She lent a hand and the game was back on. He was not a rogue after all, just a hapless oaf and now on a yellow card early in the game. They were through. The next couple were sharp. From Warrington Peter reckoned. Not natives of course, just residents or orherwise the sharp adjective would never have featured. Bags on, check. Pocket emptied, check. Belt off, check. This was tremendous. Grey tray? Run out. Turkish Tracey you downright dope. You failed to organise replenishments. More delay. Teams 1-3 were flowing through and heading to their respective Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno and Sword check in desks while Peter bobbed around in a landing craft wishing he could join the action. This had started badly. Worse was to follow. .,,, to be contd.
Posted on: Fri, 12 Sep 2014 20:36:06 +0000
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