Orna Mulcahy on people we all know
Karen is feeling a tad psychotic as she inches around the U-bend in the queue for the charter to Dubrovnik. Yet again she has chosen the dead slow, sod's law queue for the bewildered, while over there she can see a woman who was behind her in the car-park already checked in and heading for Departures. Here she is, stuck with a load of tourists. She and Michael are not tourists. They are off to look at some property investments so this will be a working holiday, which sets them apart from the badly dressed herd in front. Those men in cropped trousers and open-toed sandals - very troll-like, and to think that she is going to see them all in a week's time on the return journey, all pink and burnt and hungover, and wearing funny hats. No, she'd much rather be over there in the short, snappy line for Geneva, because at this rate they're going to be in row 35 beside the toilet. Where is Michael, anyway? Is he walking back from the long-term car park?
And what's this? The couple in front have suddenly sprouted four friends who are shimmying under the barrier with 17 pieces of luggage, three sets of clubs and coffees all round. The absolute nerve! She has been on her feet for the past 40 minutes and is badly in need of a latte, but it looks like they'll barely make the gate for take-off, never mind have time for coffee and a try-on of some sunglasses or a browse through the beady things at Monsoon, which is nearly her favourite part of the journey. Also, she has absolutely nothing to read and no moisturiser. What an appalling bunch, and now for God's sake one of them has farted ... Eau d'Aeroport.
And, oh lord, what's happening up at the desk now? Two long-haired types in sandals rummaging in their rucksacks and arguing with the girl behind the desk. Someone please hold her back from giving them a good smack. Off around the world, is it, and lost their passports already? Why don't they just stay at home and get themselves a job instead of hanging around airports biffing people with their dirty big backpacks? She never did that, and no child of hers is going to do it either. Look at the next kid in line. French exchange, I'd bet, sure to hold everyone up with excess baggage.
Come on, come on, come on ... Is that a twinge in her chest? Yes, she could have a heart attack and die right here, and they'd all just step over her. Where's her aspirin? Oh no, there's the dotty old granny behind having trouble with her suitcase. Is she going to have to carry hers as well? Here's Michael now and it looks like they're going to be last in the queue. She could have had breakfast at home, put on her Fake Bake properly instead of fumbling in the dark, and still have checked in at the exact same time. It would put you off travelling.