Back home after a very nice holiday to Seville. My neck, eyelids and right shoulder are nicely burnt, and I’ve done more loads of washing today than Dot Cotton does in a fortnight; just the way it should be.
I know it’s my turn for a holiday when a few days before heading off I think I may scream if one more person dares to go about their daily business in my presence. Unbeknown to them, several people’s lives were in serious danger when I was at the station on Friday; how dare they walk slightly slower than me, making me microseconds late home? As I gritted my teeth and refrained from shouting ‘Get out of my way!’ I realised the time had come for a break.
And so where better to start the week’s rest than with the biggest test of human tolerance around – the airport. Zombie-like, sunglass-clad holiday makers drag around suitcases on wheels as if they were their own severed limbs. Don’t mind me, just roll on over my foot, I won’t need it on holiday anyway, I’ll just be over here shoving every beauty product I could buy in miniature form into freezer bags, and living the vacation dream.
Final snacks and necessities purchased the furore in the departure lounge dies down until the crucial moment when a tiny number appears under the word ‘Gate’ next to our flight on the big screen. And then, like the gun has been fired in the 200m race, we pound those airport corridors like our lives depend on it. Yes they’ve given us a 30 minute window to do what is definitely no more than a five minute walk, but if it’s a queue they’re looking for then we’ll give them a queue.
I like to think of myself as a casual traveller, just meandering through the terminal, sloping onto the plane and into my travel Pringles without a care in the world – like I’M the normal one and it’s everyone else that’s making the whole process stressful with their pushing and sighing. But I know I’m just as bad. Ok, I don’t run to the front of the check-in queue or hurtle through customs, but if I’m honest I’d like to. I want to get the hell in and out of there as quickly as I possibly can, and away from all the other nutcases like me so that I can get on with being a reasonable human being for as many days as I’ve paid to be.
As our plane landed in Seville on Monday evening and the fasten-seatbelt sign dimmed, our tin can erupted with the sound of opening overhead compartments and tumbling hand luggage into the hands of eager holidaymakers.
And so we had arrived. Ignoring the exchange behind which made my ovaries retract on the way off the plane – “Oi Gaz, grab my bag will you?” “What, your ball bag?! HAHAHA” – I stepped into Spain and away from my fellow travellers for a whole five days.
It is a certain state of mind that allows one not to mind such close proximity to our fellow man – something which perhaps in time I will achieve. But until then, all I need is a few days off here and there to rest my tired head and prepare me for the flight home. Now then, where to go next…