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!
Monday 14 March 2011
Wednesday 2 March 2011
To Err on a Zee Thing
Our challenge was to...Write a story using as many words beginning with the letter z as possible.
Myrtle Siegman was mad. Not in a zany, dotty old aunt kind of way but rather a madness that comes from an irrational zealous belief. Convinced that she had masterminded the chad fiasco in Florida, after the accident with the hole punch, and was therefore solely responsible for the runaway victory by George W Bush. This was because the aliens wanted it to happen. With Bush in charge world domination was assured because Jesus was coming home! Whisked away by aliens 2000 years ago, to cover up the non-payment of a large grocery bill, he’d had enough and was on his way back.
Myrtle had communicated with the greys about the inaugural rally through Washington D.C. and the plan had been laid for zero hour, January 20th. Everyone knew that aliens understood messages if you just used first letters - why else would they call them U.F.O’s? Myrtle had decided to hold a message up for the aliens telling them where to meet. She’d worked hard on that the board - Please Rendezvous At Tower. Maybe with a bit more thought she wouldn’t have got arrested.
Zelda exhaled a long stream of Cuban cigar smoke and gazed at the picture of her sister being led away in handcuffs. Obviously taken with a zoom lens, it was like looking into the eyes of a zombie. This was all their parents fault.
Zelda’s family had never been normal. Their parents obsession with the letter Z (ok Myrtle had been a mistake) led to gardens filled with Zinnias, evening meals ending with sweet, heady zabaglione and the sponsorship of zebras in far away zoos. Brought up on a diet of Frank Zappa and Zen Buddhism philosophies their childhood reached a zenith of non-conformity.
Staring once more at the picture, Zelda recalled one year when convinced that like Ziggy, she wanted to play guitar, Myrtle’s attempts to procure one from her parents had amounted to a present of a zither. Absentmindedly Zelda flicked the lid of her zippo lighter, acrid petrol fumes mixed with the fog of cigar smoke and her face lit up briefly as she sucked on the zesty piquancy of a new cheroot.
A zephyr breeze entered her apartment. Twisting her cubic zirconium ring so as not to damage the intricately stitched zig zag pattern on her knitted house coat she pulled the zip up over her ample bosom which jostled together like two docked Zeppelins.
Glancing at the clock on the DVD she realised the end credits for the Mark of Zorro were rolling. Had she really been staring at that picture that long? Even allowing for the difference in time zones it was still too early to contact Bernie Shallotte, long time friend and now a Los Angeles PI. Originally working for New York’s finest till the accident with the cat, the zucchini and the coffee machine, Bernie’s involvement with the Zodiac case was legendary. If anyone could help get Myrtle out, Bernie could.
Myrtle Siegman was mad. Not in a zany, dotty old aunt kind of way but rather a madness that comes from an irrational zealous belief. Convinced that she had masterminded the chad fiasco in Florida, after the accident with the hole punch, and was therefore solely responsible for the runaway victory by George W Bush. This was because the aliens wanted it to happen. With Bush in charge world domination was assured because Jesus was coming home! Whisked away by aliens 2000 years ago, to cover up the non-payment of a large grocery bill, he’d had enough and was on his way back.
Myrtle had communicated with the greys about the inaugural rally through Washington D.C. and the plan had been laid for zero hour, January 20th. Everyone knew that aliens understood messages if you just used first letters - why else would they call them U.F.O’s? Myrtle had decided to hold a message up for the aliens telling them where to meet. She’d worked hard on that the board - Please Rendezvous At Tower. Maybe with a bit more thought she wouldn’t have got arrested.
Zelda exhaled a long stream of Cuban cigar smoke and gazed at the picture of her sister being led away in handcuffs. Obviously taken with a zoom lens, it was like looking into the eyes of a zombie. This was all their parents fault.
Zelda’s family had never been normal. Their parents obsession with the letter Z (ok Myrtle had been a mistake) led to gardens filled with Zinnias, evening meals ending with sweet, heady zabaglione and the sponsorship of zebras in far away zoos. Brought up on a diet of Frank Zappa and Zen Buddhism philosophies their childhood reached a zenith of non-conformity.
Staring once more at the picture, Zelda recalled one year when convinced that like Ziggy, she wanted to play guitar, Myrtle’s attempts to procure one from her parents had amounted to a present of a zither. Absentmindedly Zelda flicked the lid of her zippo lighter, acrid petrol fumes mixed with the fog of cigar smoke and her face lit up briefly as she sucked on the zesty piquancy of a new cheroot.
A zephyr breeze entered her apartment. Twisting her cubic zirconium ring so as not to damage the intricately stitched zig zag pattern on her knitted house coat she pulled the zip up over her ample bosom which jostled together like two docked Zeppelins.
Glancing at the clock on the DVD she realised the end credits for the Mark of Zorro were rolling. Had she really been staring at that picture that long? Even allowing for the difference in time zones it was still too early to contact Bernie Shallotte, long time friend and now a Los Angeles PI. Originally working for New York’s finest till the accident with the cat, the zucchini and the coffee machine, Bernie’s involvement with the Zodiac case was legendary. If anyone could help get Myrtle out, Bernie could.
Sunday 6 February 2011
A "little" bit more about me
If I had to describe myself, I suppose I would say solidly built. Plump calves sit atop thin ankles and child size feet carry me wherever I want to go. I've never had flabby arms - this being the result of keep fit and years of battling with head-strong horses.
My hands are miniature versions of an adults, and Nick can place his palm against mine whilst curling his fingers over my outstretched digits. Often his thumb and forefinger supply a bracelet for my wrist.
My blue of my eyes changes with the seasons - cold and pale on stark winter days and shining like an azure sea in June. Most girls try to hide their freckles but not me, they dot my cheeks adding character to an otherwise plain round face.
There should be more laughter lines around my mouth and eyes...but that's another story.
My hands are miniature versions of an adults, and Nick can place his palm against mine whilst curling his fingers over my outstretched digits. Often his thumb and forefinger supply a bracelet for my wrist.
My blue of my eyes changes with the seasons - cold and pale on stark winter days and shining like an azure sea in June. Most girls try to hide their freckles but not me, they dot my cheeks adding character to an otherwise plain round face.
There should be more laughter lines around my mouth and eyes...but that's another story.
Tuesday 25 January 2011
Spellchecker poem
Sore you leaving with hymn, the other knight
The whore frost clinging like rhyme
Too you’re hare tide back with a died gibbon
Did ewe take him two our special plaice
Sew am I your currant or passed lover
The weigh I reed it I no knot witch!
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