K is for Departure Lounge

Departure Lounge

Terminal 2 Manchester is more
abysmal than the weather.

The ubiquitous Brit's
unashamed in their
brown sandals, white socks,
T-shirts and mismatched shorts
skilfully negotiate the
challenge of the check in
oblivious to the one of style

It is I who am self-conscious
I feel superior and hate myself for it.
I already feel like a leper in Armani
and then the looped announcement
pronounces
"Smoking is not allowed in this airport
except in the clearly marked
designated smoking areas"

Ashamed of my UK passport
I join the throng of
fraught mothers
pissed and pissed-off fathers
screaming kids
and search for the bar

It is incongruously decked out as a ship
and I feel my spirits sink with it
I fortify myself with a large G &; T
(well it's obligatory isn't it?)

My flight is announced
and I proceed to Gate 10 with trepidation
my fear, not of flying but of my co-passengers.
This apprehension is not unfounded
as family after cloned family
make their way to the same destination.
My heart lifts as an elegant couple join the queue
their language signifies they are Spanish
and European as we, alas, will never be.

Dave Randall?
July 2000