Start at the end

Despite that there isn't a time difference between England and Ireland, and with it no jet lag, I'm still a little out of it today. I might as well start at the end, and then write up the bits and pieces from my paper journal over the next few days.

My flight was at 9.20pm, which meant that the airline had 'recommended' I check in two hours before, which seemed unnecessary for a flight that was just under an hour long. Dave and I got to the airport around 8. We'd left the house in plenty of time, stopped at a bar for a drink, continued to the bus station, checked what time the airport bus was, went to another bar for another drink, and got to the airport for 8. I checked in and no problem so far. We got something to eat, and -- yes -- went to the airport bar for more drinks. I wanted to squeeze out the last of the time I had left with Dave.

I remember at some point over drinks telling Dave that out of principle I had decided that I wouldn't board the plane until they were prepared to ask for me by name. I was joking, of course, but even though there was one announcement which prompted Dave to ask me if it was for my flight, I ignored it. I told him we had plenty of time yet. I guess he must have heard where it was going. Only when we were finishing our drinks and thinking it was about time I got over to the departures did I hear them call me by name. It makes you feel kind of special.

Security seemed in too much of a hurry to get me through to bother checking me too thoroughly -- I set off the metal detector as always, but that could have been the coins in my pocket, my belt buckle or my steel toe capped boots. On my journey out at the airport I had been made to remove my boots and x-ray them, because security said they were large enough to conceal something in. In Cork, they just patted me down and made me empty my pockets.

I was personally escorted across the runway to the plane, whereupon in the driving rain the zip on my rucksack broke open, spilling cds and odd socks and spare t-shirts across the floor. But I managed to stuff it all back in, get the bag shut and get onto the plane -- where I shrugged my shoulders and grinned sheepishly at the other passengers. I don't think they were aware that it was my fault they were still sitting there and not in the air -- but dammit, it wasn't even time yet.

In some karmic law-of-the-universe way, I waited an hour at the airport in England for my taxi to turn up. My plane was due to arrive at 10.20pm, and I'd told the taxi to pick me up at about 11 -- since I figured planes never take off on time, and there would probably be delays and I'd have to wait forever for my luggage, and all the rest. The plane was early, my bag came out almost right away, and when the taxi driver arrived at 11 he couldn't see my flight number on the tv screens because by that time it had been and gone. So it was closer to 12 by the time he found me, I'd been wandering about with my bags on a luggage trolley trying to look as best as I could like someone waiting to be picked up.

I got home, called San because I had missed her all week, and went to sleep. My brother woke me up with a text message at 8 am, asking me to call him. I went back to sleep after talking to him, only to be woken up again an hour later with a phone call about a shirt I'd bought from a catalogue but returned because its colours didn't match the pictures and I didn't like it. I was groggy, but I think what they told me was my shirt wasn't defective but, yes, it doesn't match the picture and they'd give me a refund. I don't remember why they said it wasn't the same, but I'd rather the cash.

And so here I am. I've found that I missed the deadline for submitting my music reviews to the student paper, and I've got shedloads of work to do if I am to stand a chance at passing this damn course.