The Waiting Game, The Chris Difford Retreat Diaries, Part Two
September 2nd, 2007
03:50 A.M.
One of the primary reasons for my devout atheism, aside from all practical and intellectual concerns, is that I refuse to believe that any kind of divine and omnipotent being designed the human neck.
Don't get me wrong, I am in favour of the neck. I have covered one or two in burning kisses in my time, and, to be fair, some of my most obstinate nemeses have tended to be large white males whose shoulders and heads meet without the benefit of said intermediary.
However, and this is my point, it is badly designed for anything above the narrow demands of receiving hickies. Sure it allows you to turn your head and cast withering looks at street evangelists and purchasers of Take That records, but you can't put it anywhere without damage.
I say this because I have just woken from a 10-minute panic nap on the floor of an airport. Now, it's all very well you saying that if I am going to sleep on airport floors then I deserve whatever I get, but think about it. Humankind has not always had beds at their disposal. Back when we were hunting hippos and ducks instead of drawing them in pyjamas to flog mattresses, we slept on the ground. The hard, cold and occasionally pointy ground. What possible evolutionary purpose does the crick in the neck serve? I ask you!
But, at least, it is morning - after a fashion - and aside from my ill-advised few minutes of shut-eye, I have survived a long night in Stansted. It is, finally, time to check in.
Now one of the benefits of staying up all night, waiting for a flight, should, surely, be that you are at the front of the queue for check-in. Unfortunately, in the ten minutes between me finally deciding to risk shutting my eyes and my startling myself awake again, 300,000 people who until an hour ago were tucked up safely in their beds, snoozing, reading or enjoying a variety of carnal interludes, have now charged into the airport. And they are all, it would seem, flying - as am I - BobAir.
BobAir is an alias, as I'm sure you have guessed. This is primarily because I wish to take the piss out of the airline as much as possible, but until we sort out our label situation, I may not be able to afford to fly with anyone else. Also, BobAir is funnier than Ryanair. To me, at any rate.
For a good twenty minutes or so, the rampaging hordes flocked towards their check-in desks like panic-stricken Tokyo residents fleeing from an irradiated model of a lizard. Suddenly, I became aware that the reason why I could not find a check-in desk to flee to myself is that I was at the wrong BobAir section.
Two sections?! The sheer extravagance. Obviously, they can afford it, what with the extra charges for baggage weighing over two ounces and the various surcharges on musical instruments, sports equipment and the bodies of dead loved ones, but still.
Eventually I tracked down my flight. Of course, by this time, the line was longer than various emails suggest I could become with drugs and/or minor surgery. So I joined it and began to wait.
03:50 A.M.
One of the primary reasons for my devout atheism, aside from all practical and intellectual concerns, is that I refuse to believe that any kind of divine and omnipotent being designed the human neck.
Don't get me wrong, I am in favour of the neck. I have covered one or two in burning kisses in my time, and, to be fair, some of my most obstinate nemeses have tended to be large white males whose shoulders and heads meet without the benefit of said intermediary.
However, and this is my point, it is badly designed for anything above the narrow demands of receiving hickies. Sure it allows you to turn your head and cast withering looks at street evangelists and purchasers of Take That records, but you can't put it anywhere without damage.
I say this because I have just woken from a 10-minute panic nap on the floor of an airport. Now, it's all very well you saying that if I am going to sleep on airport floors then I deserve whatever I get, but think about it. Humankind has not always had beds at their disposal. Back when we were hunting hippos and ducks instead of drawing them in pyjamas to flog mattresses, we slept on the ground. The hard, cold and occasionally pointy ground. What possible evolutionary purpose does the crick in the neck serve? I ask you!
But, at least, it is morning - after a fashion - and aside from my ill-advised few minutes of shut-eye, I have survived a long night in Stansted. It is, finally, time to check in.
Now one of the benefits of staying up all night, waiting for a flight, should, surely, be that you are at the front of the queue for check-in. Unfortunately, in the ten minutes between me finally deciding to risk shutting my eyes and my startling myself awake again, 300,000 people who until an hour ago were tucked up safely in their beds, snoozing, reading or enjoying a variety of carnal interludes, have now charged into the airport. And they are all, it would seem, flying - as am I - BobAir.
BobAir is an alias, as I'm sure you have guessed. This is primarily because I wish to take the piss out of the airline as much as possible, but until we sort out our label situation, I may not be able to afford to fly with anyone else. Also, BobAir is funnier than Ryanair. To me, at any rate.
For a good twenty minutes or so, the rampaging hordes flocked towards their check-in desks like panic-stricken Tokyo residents fleeing from an irradiated model of a lizard. Suddenly, I became aware that the reason why I could not find a check-in desk to flee to myself is that I was at the wrong BobAir section.
Two sections?! The sheer extravagance. Obviously, they can afford it, what with the extra charges for baggage weighing over two ounces and the various surcharges on musical instruments, sports equipment and the bodies of dead loved ones, but still.
Eventually I tracked down my flight. Of course, by this time, the line was longer than various emails suggest I could become with drugs and/or minor surgery. So I joined it and began to wait.
posted by Kentonist at 10:24 am
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