Luton Airport May 31, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Another jaunt to the kingdom. Family duties. Not a second of free time. OK, a second, when I made my pilgrimage, coldly, to Waterloo Bridge, sucked in the view and got back on public transport to carry on being dutiful.
My flight back was delayed. I sat in Luton Airport for three hours, people-watching. I tried to guess who’d get on the Berlin flight. (This got easier as time went on and I could see the types that were as silent and motionless as long as I was.) It was fun guessing where the non-Berliners were going to. “Quick, Trace, we’ve got to get to gate 25.” (Look up to screen. Gate 25 = Palma de Mallorca. Smug inward satisfaction at having guessed right.) The following eventually made their way to gate 18 to shuffle onto the Berlin flight without a hint of an apology or a free compensatory Easyjet coffee:
1) Every white person with dreadlocks in the airport.
2) Every person under 27 who looked as if they wouldn’t mind participating in a revolution.
3) A fairly hefty proportion of the Luton Airport homosexuals.
4) A swarm of women, lips pursed, with short blond hair and glasses.
5) A couple of businessmen – one ludicrously tall and young-looking in his whistle – who presumably hadn’t been able to book a flight to Frankfurt on time and didn’t realise that it would cost them 700 euros to get from B. to F. with Deutsche Bahn.
6) 14 million Poles.
7) Assorted other wankers.
Still, had my passport checked by a ravishing policeman at Schönefeld with a lovelily sprouting hairy chest and an organ-melting and loin-troubling smile. It’s fucking good to be back.