The Long Haul

The Long Haul



We got up early, we set off early, we got to Heathrow early! The customary smoking oneself silly situation begins with Nick. In and out of the airport for a drag, and I don’t just mean the cases. Nicotine levels reaching critical. I swear I can hear him buzzing.


To pass the time as I don’t smoke, I people watch. You have the perpetually bronzed student types that can squat in some sort of impossible yogic pose whilst talking endlessly on their mobiles and sipping Costa Coffee without leaving a hint of a caffeine smile. Then there are the confused, middle aged, panicky types. Arms full of detailed itineraries which probably even timetable in toilet breaks. They gaze around wildly like some demented bird of prey. The majority, though, are just like us. Excited, slightly confused and fed up with queuing.


So after a last ditch top up with nicotine it was time to go through security and the point of no return to light up. We were directed into the line that was next to the booths where you just knew the twang of latex on digits was a regular occurrence. I took off my shoes, thankfully that was all I’d been asked to remove! I shuffled towards the desk. At last it was our turn, but no - it’s comfort break time for the woman who pulls the trays through the x-ray machine. So everything stops again. Talk about demarcation. Did she have to take a special test to be able to reach forward and pull. Perhaps she has some secret ergonomic training so she wouldn’t develop R.S.I. Obviously the bloke who pushes the trays into the machine has passed a different exam or has contradictory muscle tone, I’m not sure.


Ahh she’s back ready to pull those trays. We shuffle forward. Reunited with our shoes on the other side of the gateway we scrabble round on the floor tying up loose laces and threading belts through loops.


Time for some exercise as we walk up and down the concourse. Twin WH Smiths compete for custom - something to read on the long haul flight. Bottled water that’s allowed on board. Even though they have expanded the area since we last flew I’m sure the choice of eateries has declined. We walk from one end to the other searching for something tempting, but end at Wetherspoons for a jacket spud.


The youth behind the bar says 10 minutes. 25 minutes later and I’m starting to panic. The hands on my watch are creeping towards the time when we have to be at the gate. But as Nick says ‘it would help if we had a gate to be at.’ The spuds arrive and are wolfed down in record time.

Eventually the display boards find us a gate and it’s the last minute scrabble to buy some reading matter. Sorry WH Smiths but Borders had a better selection. We start off on our mini workout of a power walk to get to the gate. We needn’t have bothered, we weren’t going to take off on time. Our slot passes, we haven’t even started to board. Even the elderly, infirm and those with children are still with us. Those in First Class look extremely perturbed. Nick’s nicotine levels start to drop. The sighs start, never a good sign. We take turns to have a last wee.

At last we’re on board, we’ve found the seats, stored the bags, sat down and fingers crossed no one has booked the window seat. No such blooming luck. A man hovers next to Nick gesticulating towards the empty seat Up we get, crab walking into the aisle to let him in.



One hour later we rumble onto the runway and we’re off. Nick doesn’t like flying, especially the take off and landing (See Jersey). My fingers are always crushed as he grips my hand. His eyes close and there is more sighing.



The flight is as you would expect. The fed us, they gave us alcohol, they expected us to sleep. The first few hours of along haul flight do pass quickly - well at 60 seconds per minute - but you know what I mean! It’s the middle section where you doze off and wake abruptly thinking you must have zizzed for hours when in fact only 120 seconds have ticked by. The picture of the plane’s progress still shows you over the Atlantic Ocean and the head wind doesn’t help. Time to change your watch to the local time at your destination. This doesn’t make the flight go any faster, merely confirms you have too long left in the air.

You go through the ‘It would be so and so at home now.’


‘This time next week we’ll be in…’


God it’s so boring flying long haul, made worse by the fact that the must have, unputdownable best seller you bought from Borders is the biggest pile of boring bollocks ever and you just can’t get past page 3!