We're busy doing nothing, working the whole day through, trying to find lots of things not to do'
Don't worry, JT, I haven't forgotten the blog, I've just been busy. Doing nothing. Let's go back to Sunday, and start from there, then, eh?
Sunday.
Looking back on it now, I should've known. Should've spotted the signs. But I was so relieved to have finally escaped the clutches of the Meet and Greet parking at Manchester airport, my mind was elsewhere. Meet and Greet? Meet and Wait more like. I dunno what the hold up was, and I didn't really care, I just wanted to go on holiday. The wait was probably only 5 minutes or so, but at the end of a long, hard two years without a holiday, it was 5 mins longer than I was happy to put up with. They've introduced a new facility there, where you drive into a tent while they take a load of photos of your vehicle. A selfie of your car, basically. So, after our C-Max has posed and pouted through its photo session, someone finally lets us through to park.
We grab our bags, throw the car key at the poor man in the office, who seems at his wits end with this new 'system', and leg it towards departures. We've already checked in online, cos we're really organised, see. Or at least, Mrs ScouseFitz is. She's got it all boxed off, boarding cards, visas, insurance, you name it. Me? All I had to do was turn up, really. I'd been so busy with work that I hadn't even had time to buy any clothes! None of my 'holiday wardrobe' fits me – we'll come back to that. So, we're in 'bag drop'. Another queue. And we're told that check-in is actually half an hour early. Wow!. We make the obvious assumption that that means we'll arrive on our holidays half an hour early, right? Right? Speak up, I can't hear you?? Well, no. That's not what it means, it turns out. We fly through departures, security, into Duty Free, where The Bank Of Dad is subjected to what feels like an organised raid by two members of my family, buy some magazines, where, I have to say, we face the longest queue of all at the WH Smith self serve counter. (I'm gonna write to them when I get home to advise them of my radical new idea. I know of a machine which will serve the customer, take the customers money, and even speak to the customer! The name of this radical new machine? Humans! Why not employ humans? That'd be a great idea.) Off to the bar.
As we look out of the windows in the bar area, the skies darken, and the heavens open. It's torrential ou there. Any minute now, I expect to see jet planes and suitcases floating past the window and being washed away! It really is VERY wet out there. Another Guinness please, barman. Ha! Brilliant! Nothing better than leaving the UK for warmer climes, and leaving bad weather behind. So, after a couple of pints of Guinness, priced at just under a fiver a pint (bargain knock down rates!), we head off to the gate, and we're running a tad late. When we get there, however, we find that we're not the only ones running a tad late, cos the plane hasn't even arrived!!! Hmmm. Could it be that they knew this when we were at bag drop, I begin to wonder. Hurry up and wait. So, years later, the bloody plane arrives, people get off, they refuel, take the bags off, clean it, etc etc. Then, still in the rain, we're finally allowed to board and we're ON OUR WAY!!!
Except. We're not. Because we've missed our slot, and the weather's so bad that they don't want to give us a new slot. So again, we wait. On the packed and hot plane, on the Tarmac. On several occasions the Captain, who at this point probably has EasyJet HQ on his back, desperate to avoid having to pay us all compensation, keeps telling us, just another 15 minutes, just another 15 minutes…..
The natives are getting restless, the parents are getting agitated, and the smokers?? Well, they're planning a mutiny...they're gonna 'get off and have a smoke'….oh dear. Meanwhile,
JT is at home in Turkey watching Skyscanner, phoning and texting me to tell me the rules on claiming our money back. This could be interesting…. We take off, two hours late, and head for Dalaman, on a 'different route' to avoid following the storm...yeah ok….whatever.
It's ok though, the bars open, and that lovely little trolley keeps on rolling by, packed to the hilt, so the natives, it seems become a little less restless, and eventually fall asleep. At one point, my snoring is scaring the small children around me (and some of the adults), but Mrs SF has the solution, and leans across the aisle to smack me awake with a rolled up copy of Take A Break. Wow. That's some weapon, my arm's still hurting!
Off the plane, two and a half hours late, avoiding any chance of a refund, but finally, we're here. At last. Out into the car park, and its then, right at that moment, when it becomes real. After the longest wait, and the worst delays, the lack of comfort, we're here. The crickets welcome us with their chorus from the trees, it's warm, you can even smell the heat, practically touch it. Immediately, my shoulders, tightened by the stress of everyday life, start to drop, to relax. Its a magical feeling, and one I'll never tire of. Lovely. Just lovely. Like I said, it's good to be back…...