Peter Farrington flies home. Episode 2 Readers are advised to take this with a pinch of salt. Peter, belt in hand, strode towards the belt. Mrs F deposited her belongings into the grey tray exactly as she had been told. Peter knew that telling her several times would pay off. The bags were on, handles facing outward, grey trays positioned lengthways so they can be grabbed easily and through the arch they went. Peter kept his eyes fixed on the desks. He had already worked out which bank of desks to use by looking ahead. A concept lost on orher travellers; those on The Gatwick Flight especially. Peter often wondered how the average Southerner got through a day but that is another story ( The North / South Divide by Peter Farrington ). Back to the tale. There was valuable time to make up now. A well practised friendly but bewildered smile at the security guard disarms them from time consuming searches. It worked. Bags off, grey trays emptied and contents inserted into pockets on the move. Belt carried. That can go back in the next queue, not before. There is no time to waste. Peter identified Juno as the shortest line. He could see a couple heading towards it ahead of him. He gave Mrs F the nod and she stepped up the pace. Ready to undertake them. The female of the pair was the problem. She was pushing a luggage trolley. On it were two bags. Her husband walked alongside. Where did she think she was Peter wondered. 1986? Cases have wheels on them nowadays. Only amateurs use those trolleys. They get in the way and slow the whole process down. Like entering a lorry for the Grand Prix. How bloody dare they get in the way. The undertake was going to be difficult as there was a risk of being snarled up in the queue for Sword. Gatwick bound Canadian Infantrymen by Peters reckoning. It is very un British to use an elbow in a queue contest. That is for riff raff in the January sales. Peter dismissed that option as too continental for his liking. This was a matter of stealth and timing now. The pace was perfect, Mrs F drew alongside the trolley and clearly recognised the cheating aspect of it. Extending the competitors forward reach by three feet. She took a breath and veered right. This was enough to break their stride and cause them to head off target. In their wake came Peter. Pushing, not pulling, his suitcase. Master stroke. Nudging ahead bit by bit like a racing driver, relying on the opponent to avoid a collision by giving way. It must never look deliberate. The ladys husband, Sidney Slowcoach, as Peter had now labelled him, recognised Peters racing driver credentials by muttering James Hunt as Peter took the lead and narrowly beat him over the finishing line into position eight in the queue for Juno. That extra legroom was still feasible. Now to take stock. A glass panel in the ceiling above the queue. The sun blazed down straight down through it. Right onto position 8. Nowhere else. Peter has a poor tolerance to heat. The sun was dazzling him too. On went his Raybans. Roy Orbison played in Peters head Its Over in perfect stereo. He waited. A whole three minutes. He hadnt moved. Omaha was greeting landing tourists rapidly as was Sword. Their lines were moving. Why wasnt Juno? Damn damn damn. Peter had miscalculated. At the head of the queue was a family. Seven of them. Foreign. Blue passports. Headscarves. Waving arms. A manager was at the head of Juno. Dealing with them. Head shaking. The clock ticked. And ticked. And tocked. There can only ever be one plan B. Switch queues. This was a test. Swap position 8 in Juno for positions 15 upwards in the other lines? High risk. Peter went against all his instincts and stayed put. He made a marker in his mind of the competitors currently occupying the last places while secretly being chuffed that so many were still tackling the security phase or even reading the display boards trying to work out where the check in desks were. Are they stupid? It was a mistake. The other queues moved steadily through. Juno was locked. Peter watched the pointing, waving, head shaking and frowning. Arms folded, glaring. Peter was in full on irritation mode now. A release was required. He let out a rasping Bloody foreigners and hedged his bets given that all parties were clearly foreign. Something like three hours later, the family finally turned away, with boarding passes, towards the departure lounge. Juno was moving now. Postion 8 became position 1 and Mr and Mrs F approached the lady at thd desk. She was about 15 years of age. A thought crossed Peters mind as he considered You dont see spotty Turks do you? and realised it must be to do with olive oil and steamy baths. This was it. Where will we be sitting. The news wasnt good. Seats 16A and16B. Side by side, a window but no upgrades available, not far from the door but too close to the wing. This was the John Bishop of aircraft seats. It was okay but not great. Not by any means. Peter had hoped for a Sadowiz or a Doddy. Hed have settled fir a Lee Mack or Connolly. It wasnt to be. Now to the departure lounge. To be contd
Posted on: Sat, 13 Sep 2014 11:26:04 +0000
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