After a week in England spent organising my national insurance number, a doctor's appointment, the opening of a British bank account - each of which containing ridiculous hassles - I am now stuck at Heathrow with my flight having been cancelled to Geneva.
I have been queueing for over an hour already and am only halfway thorugh the line. Quite coincidentally, in front of me in the line is a good school friend, Eliza Bowey, who has just flown in from Sydney and is attempting to get to Ireland.
In the queue are a unique collection of people. An orthodox Jew stands directly in front of me, and in front of him is a woman severely decked out in Prada, Gucci, Louis Vuitton... she is getting pretty worked up about the situation at hand. Several places in front of her stands a skinny buddhist monk wearing crocks and socks. Sexy. As the queue moves forward he insists on kicking his sole item of luggage, a cardboard box from the US Army, rather than picking it up like everyone else around him.
Businessmen stand about on their iPads with laptops open, insistent on making the most of the opportunity to get some work done despite the less-than-ideal conditions.
As the paging service interrupts the silence of the line, travellers change their expressions to ones of utmost concentration. Are they perhaps being called? Could there be a flight for them?
Right now, I pray the afternoon flights will open and a Heathrow sleepover won't be necessary. However, in the event that it is, it will just have to be something to add to my list of experiences.
No comments:
Post a Comment