The Airport

Airports, I spend a lot of my time in them, wandering round and round every now and then getting the urge to jump on to the baggage carousel. Let’s face it we've all wanted to.  But from your first holiday you are warned that this seemingly fun piece of machinery is actually a death trap. Parents like to ruin everyone’s fun! I remember telling my mother that I thought it looked like a moving cat walk, she replied’ Oh darling that’s exactly why I don’t let you on there. No point inspiring false hope.’

Now it has been a while since I've been on a plane with my family, I try to not to enter into small, 20 thousand feet off the ground spaces with them. I feel panicked for some reason. So anyway, my step dad ‘kindly’ takes us all on holiday to Turkey. We arrive at the airport, mum’s arm has magically started to ache, she suffers from tennis elbow, ironically the only thing she can do with her arm, ‘suffering from tennis elbow’,  is play tennis. No cleaning, hoovering? ‘God no’ Ironing? May I dare say it ’Oh terrible for my arm’, carrying her suitcase the five meters from the parked car to inside the airport? ‘Darlings, darlings, it’s my elbow again, it really does crop up at the most convenient times. Tennis elbow is such an affliction’ I take that as a mistake, but knowing my mother as well as I do…   So I pick up her bag and we all go into the airport.

We line up at the check- in, my mother is beginning to turn that ashen grey colour after twenty minutes without a cigarette. Then the moaning begins and we are in the realm of the five stages of nicotine withdrawal

1: Denial: ‘I don’t really even like smoking, I only do it socially’

2: Anger:  ‘It’s ridiculous. This is a violation of our human rights! If I want a bloody cigarette, I’ll bloody well have one!

3: Bargaining: ‘Now look, Darling no one’s around, just us, my family don’t mind. I’ll even give you one? No one needs to know’ (My mother is flirting with the female check-in assistant, smouldering eyes, that begin twitch every now and then, hair that's slowly beginning to frizz.)

4: Depression: I just feel so, so, so … (she starts to tear up, my step dad is oblivious, I’m going bald and my sister is ready to bite my mum’s arm off)

5: Acceptance: ‘Oh Karen gave me an electronic cigarette I’ll just have to use that for now’

This is before we are out of the queue for the check-in and these stages are repeated on an hourly cycle.

Now my mother begins to recover, we are placing, or should I say Jem, Emma and I are placing the bags onto the belt when the check- in assistant begins to go through her safety questions. Now most people say 

‘No, we haven’t got any of those things in our bags.’ As we all know my mother is not ‘most people.’ She replies ‘Well, of course I haven’t got a gun, or drugs, or any kind of illegal implement in my bag. But I cannot answer that question on the behalf of my family. Fenella? Do you have any of these items in your bag hmmmm?’ Her face is waiting for an answer, whilst inferring that I have indeed got some form of illegal substance in my luggage. I say 'no, nothing like that in my bag at all' and laugh in what I perceived to be nonchalant and sophisticated manner. 

 However, there and then my bag is searched. The last time we went on holiday my mother took 3oz weights in her hand luggage, so she could ‘do arm exercises on the plane’ and was most upset when security removed these from her. Of course, now it’s me being searched my mother states ‘Well darling, sometimes these things happen. I mean some may say it’s a breach of human rights, but I really don’t believe in all that rubbish.’

Another fun filled family holiday off to the best of starts!