Sit back, relax and enjoy the flight...

We are standing in an inevitable queue at the airport, perhaps my least favourite place on earth. It’s a paradox really, because we are about to travel to one of my most favourite places: a villa in southern Italy. The trouble is we are having to do the ‘airport and flight’ thing first.

As a result, I have already transformed from a what many people tell me is a pleasant, attractive and chatty woman to a tense and tightly wired harridan.

It wasn’t leaving our home that did that. No, I’ve got that off to a moderately relaxed exercise, with a list of things to pack and another checklist reminding me to turn off the central heating, leave a note for the postman, that sort of thing… Of course, I have been pondering what to wear on holiday for several weeks now and have done dummy runs in my mind, and a little secret shopping. What I call a little, anyway. But that’s all part of the holiday fun, really, isn’t it.

The drive to the airport goes pretty well and I benefit from Donald’s easy-going demeanour. He’s showing a little grey breaking through his sandy-brown hair but still has those good looks that make people notice him. He’s got charm coming out of his pores. I’m always the anxious one and I’m already starting to fray at the edges as we reach the carpark. He’s booked the long stay area and now we are waiting for the bus which is supposed to come every ten minutes. We’ve been here nearer fifteen and there are lots of us waiting with no sign of a bus. His gentle smile is proof he doesn’t share the anxieties I can’t hide.  He gives my arm a reassuring squeeze, acknowledging my tension. Of course, we do get on the first bus a few minutes later and of course there are plenty of free seats to spare.

The check-in queue is another form of torture.  My husband, an oasis of calm and composure, is totally aware of what is going with me. I know my impatience shows round my eyes, make-up can’t hide that. He just keeps pleasantly calm and has learned that saying nothing is best in these situations: he’s been snapped at far too many times before.

Donald, entirely nonchalantly, has chosen the first line he came across… but isn’t the next one going faster? Should we switch? Why is that person at the front taking so long? Surely, she knew she was going to have to present her passport which, it seems, is somewhere buried in her excessive luggage.

Oh! And that’s another thing. While we have had to purchase luggage to comply with the airline’s changed and more restricted allowances, no one else seems to have bothered – and not one of the check-in staff members seems in the least bit bothered. It clearly states that only one piece of carry-on will be allowed, but the woman – who has now found her passport which was in her coat pocket all the time – has a least three items and I am sure that by the time she’s been duty-free-outlet-shopping it’ll be four or five. Just wait ‘til she gets on the plane – she’ll fill one whole overhead locker on her own.

We grind or way towards the desk, getting there quite a few minutes later than that large family who arrived at the same time as us but noisily joined the neighbouring queue – of course I noticed - and have already gone through to the departures torture chamber.

The pleasant looking check-in man, who has had a greeting for every other passenger gets up from his seat as we approach, and tells us that someone else will be taking over in a moment. Why? After what Donald says is just a minute or two and I say is an unacceptably lengthy delay a much younger man with an on-trend hair-style takes over. Buzz-cut (I name him in my mind) has trouble logging in to the desk terminal and leans over to discuss the changed password procedure with the agent at the next desk. It was only updated this morning, he tells us eventually with an airline-style wide smile he’s practised in front of a mirror.

“Your flight is extremely full”, he says ominously as he taps away on his keyboard, looking at the screen we are prevented from seeing. “I’ve managed to get you together in row 27,” he glows with pride I don’t share. “Would you mind checking in your bags, the overhead lockers are going to be really packed?”

“We bought new luggage to comply,” I say lamely, containing the anger I feel welling up.

“We’re having to ask all passengers”, he lies. Of course they are not asking all passengers, otherwise there would be no luggage in the lockers at all. In the past I have countered such requests with a lie of my own: “I need access to my baggage on the flight in case I need medication,” is a ruse that has worked in past. But dear Donald, so helpful and compliant, has taken his paperback out of his carry-on and hands it over. It’s my cue. “We’ll just take the one bag on between us then, shall we”, I spit.

Boarding passes in hand we make our way through the electronic turnstiles to security – the next part of the travel nightmare. We snake our way interminably to the front – that’s why it’s called an airport terminal isn’t it. Empty our pockets, take off our coats and hand over our bags, etc. Of course he’s ready almost immediately, having only his paperback and a light coat. I, on the other hand have my defended carry-on and a much more bulky coat. He’s patiently waiting to go through the scanning arch while I’m still putting my items into the tray.

As usual my bag, when it is scanned, goes down the red lane for further inspection. We wait while two other recalcitrant passengers in front of us have their baggage searched for an errant pen-knife or a forgotten water bottle.  When my turn comes, the short dark woman on duty asks me to open my case, and then to unzip my cosmetics bag. Inside she finds my perfume, only three-quarters full and anyway clearly stating only the allowed 100ml on the label. “The bottle looked bigger on our scanner,” she says as she hands it back to me. “Just needed to check”. It’s not even half an apology. How many more irritants can the travel system inflict? I manage not to say anything in reply. Donald would be sure to remind me that it is only for our own safety.

We sit in what, laughingly, is called a departure lounge. Lounge? I think not! Donald’s nose is in the book; I’m watching the flight list screen which says our gate will be displayed at 14.20, but it’s now 14.35 and no gate has been declared. Typical! Must mean our flight will be delayed.

I ring our daughter, Julie, just for something to do. “I thought you were going to Spain about now,” she says, apparently oblivious to the fact that I sent her a WhatsApp yesterday reminding her when we were going, where we were going and when we’d be back. We chat briefly. “Super-busy, must get on”, she closes, “love to Dad”.

Eventually the screen which I have been watching continually shows our gate. The airport sign says it is an eight- or ten-minute walk - so half way to Italy, really. Donald takes the case as I adopt my route-march demeanour, trying to weave round slower passengers.

You know the procedure at the gate. They look at your passport and your boarding pass and then suggest again that you might help by having your case in the hold. “The flight is extremely full”, I am told again by a man in a Hi-Viz waistcoat, to which I want to reply, “Yes, so you’ll be making a really nice big profit won’t you”, but yet again I hold my tongue. I don’t always, but we are going on holiday after all.

I can already tell that this is one of those gates where they will bus you to the plane. And, lo and behold, in due course passengers in groups one and two are allowed through. By the time us flight--cattle in group five are called, the bus is really full, but off we weave through the labyrinth of access roads. (I admit now feeling a little bit smug, having avoided the extra payment for speedy boarding but nevertheless getting on the same bus as those have paid. Hah!)

At the plane, Donald carries the bag to the steps, waiting in the light drizzle while every other passenger, who seems to have their carry-on allowance and more, is already scrambling for overhead locker space. By the time we manage to get on board and move slowly down to row 27, the lockers are all full.

An air-hostess is already busy stuffing and repacking lockers, and takes our one case, putting it in a locker somewhere well behind where we are sitting. (Or perhaps they’ll dump it I silently quip to myself.)

They’ve given us middle and window seats and there’s already a very overweight man in a blue football shirt squeezed into the aisle seat who all but tuts as he has to get up to let us in. I squeeze in first – I’m not going to sit next to him! Incredibly, Donald is still managing his warm all-is-fine smile as he also squeeze past and then blue-shirt inserts himself back down, spilling in over the armrest.

Buckled up we listen to the familiar safety rigmarole. “Please pay attention as this plane may be different from others you have been on before” is a newish addition, but it seems to be no different from any other. Anyway, if we do have to jump into the sea wearing an inflated yellow tabard, I don’t think finding the attached whistle will be my first priority…

And now we get an even more garbled announcement from the pilot who of course tells us that we have missed our slot and we will have a short delay but that he’s doing everything possible to get us ‘there’ on time.

‘Sit back, relax and enjoy the flight’, he tells this cigar-tube filled with 168 travellers, not one of whom can or will do anything of the sort.

More announcements follow, but I am not really listening as I try to find how to put my i-phone into flight mode. Without a word passing between us Donald leans across and does it for me. I smile at him as sweetly as I can manage, which is not very!

Now we are in the air and the trolley worms its way towards row 27. Blue shirt has apparently pre-ordered a large microwaved something which has a rather unappealing odour, but he is devouring it as if he hasn’t eaten for months, which, given his size, is unlikely. We are given a bottle of water – I didn’t know they made them that small – and some sort of wafer biscuit.

Now we are in the air I realise that could use the loo, and since I have left my book in my bag, I can do both. I ask Donald in a whisper if he can ask BS to let me out. He waits for aisle-seat-man to finish his meal, and then tells him I need to get out. BS glares across at me before getting up and Donald first, then I, squeeze out and join the queue for the loo. Five of us are waiting, me at the back… then, almost inevitably, the flight hits turbulence and we are required to go back to our seats before I have been able to ‘make myself comfortable'; BS is not happy as he gets up once again for Donald and me. And with dread, I know I’m going to have to use the loo when it is allowed… It is quite a few minutes before the seatbelt sign goes off, and Donald asks BS to let us out again. Thankfully, he’s got a way of asking which is hard to resist because I can guess what that passenger is thinking!

Before very much longer we are approaching our destination and the cabin lights are dimmed for landing. It’s windy out there and the approach is difficult. We land with quite a bump and BS, who has not said anything coherent until now comments rather loudly, “have we been shot down or what?” He laughs at his own joke.

I won’t take you through the rigours of deplaning: suffice to say that we end up on the inevitable bus to the terminal, queue long and slow for border control as barely tolerated or welcome non-EU citizens.  Then we wait again while his carry-on bag – which hadn’t been – is sent to the wrong luggage belt.

Even so, we are met in arrivals by patient Guido, totally reliable, jolly and fun. He’s taking us to the villa – a bit of a boring drive in the dark, but our holiday has now officially begun.

He says that the weather will be perfect for the next ten days.  I try hard not to even think about the fight home…