Airport Coffee
I love flying. I always feel like a rock-star when the ground drags away and I wing my way wherever. It’s like the ultimate shortcut. Now you may say that a wormhole or an unstable rip in the fabric of linear time and reality would, in fact, be the ultimate shortcut. Or you may claim that a time machine would be the ultimate shortcut. And you’d be right you nerd you. And yes, the traveling to and from the airport, the parking and trekking and walking and waiting and pissing all takes time which adds to the actual journey, but hey. Whatever. Flying good. Crawling bad. So anyway, Firefly and I are coming back from the sea the other day and we’ve checked in and we’ve ordered cappuccinos and I hear our names being called over a storm of static on the PA. Bugger. We abandon our coffees and run to the nearest active boarding gate.
Uncle Evil: Our names etc., PA system blah, blah etc.
Airport Moron #1: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.
Uncle Evil: This says SAA xxxx and we’re BA xxxx, dude.
Airport Moron #1: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.
Uncle Evil: Whatever. Do you know anything? (I say turning and addressing a man whom I later learn is world famous for being the first person to have his brain entirely removed and replaced with a giant wet Yak turd.)
Airport Moron #2: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.
So we shuffled in as unconvincing a manner as we could and made our way to the end of the line. Firefly decides to rescue our coffee order and returns just in time to catch Airport Moron #1, now holding our ticket stubs for the second time in five minutes, saying, “Oh no, you’re in the wrong place. Completely. You should be at gate 8.”
Uncle Evil: F@#K! F$%K YOU, YOU F&*#!$G EVIL FREAK F@#K!
Airport Moron #1: Mutter, mutter grumble…
As I pull Firefly through the airport at high speed I notice that she’s again without coffee and I realize that I have lost my cool and this flusters me to the extent that I stumble and spill my coffee all over the floor and onto a pretty lady’s white socks and sneaks. I recompose myself and apologise to the lady and the blur of people surrounding me who are looking at me as if I spilled my coffee on their white socks too and head to the front of the cue.
Firefly: (Now seriously doubting my sanity.) Are you sure..?
But I don’t answer because we’re there.
Uncle Evil: Our names etc., PA system, disaster at SAA, blah, blah etc.
Airport Moron #3: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.
Uncle Evil: It’s just that…
Airport Moron #3: Back of the line please.
We had to wait to get to the front of the cue for the clincher. Enter Airport Moron #4, looking terribly severe with crossed arms and a ridiculous tapping foot.
The absurd conversation that then ensued with Airport Morons #3, 4 and 5 was, well, just that. But basically they’d been trying to track us down because we had apparently not paid. Oops. So #4 harrumphs impatiently and frog marches us back to Check-In and I go through the credit card rigmarole as efficiently as I can and we run back and get re-searched and then it happens. Airport Moron #4, running ahead of us, slips in my coffee spill.
Even the dirty looks from the people on the shuttle who had been standing like cattle waiting for us couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off my face.
But the real belly laugh only came last night as I recounted my tale of woe to the woman who had made my original booking. It was with great disbelief that she then presented me with the original payment receipt. British Airways had pulled us off the tarmac in high drama and forced us to cough up for a flight that had already been paid for.
Nice.
I love flying. I always feel like a rock-star when the ground drags away and I wing my way wherever. It’s like the ultimate shortcut. Now you may say that a wormhole or an unstable rip in the fabric of linear time and reality would, in fact, be the ultimate shortcut. Or you may claim that a time machine would be the ultimate shortcut. And you’d be right you nerd you. And yes, the traveling to and from the airport, the parking and trekking and walking and waiting and pissing all takes time which adds to the actual journey, but hey. Whatever. Flying good. Crawling bad. So anyway, Firefly and I are coming back from the sea the other day and we’ve checked in and we’ve ordered cappuccinos and I hear our names being called over a storm of static on the PA. Bugger. We abandon our coffees and run to the nearest active boarding gate.
Uncle Evil: Our names etc., PA system blah, blah etc.
Airport Moron #1: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.
Uncle Evil: This says SAA xxxx and we’re BA xxxx, dude.
Airport Moron #1: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.
Uncle Evil: Whatever. Do you know anything? (I say turning and addressing a man whom I later learn is world famous for being the first person to have his brain entirely removed and replaced with a giant wet Yak turd.)
Airport Moron #2: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.
So we shuffled in as unconvincing a manner as we could and made our way to the end of the line. Firefly decides to rescue our coffee order and returns just in time to catch Airport Moron #1, now holding our ticket stubs for the second time in five minutes, saying, “Oh no, you’re in the wrong place. Completely. You should be at gate 8.”
Uncle Evil: F@#K! F$%K YOU, YOU F&*#!$G EVIL FREAK F@#K!
Airport Moron #1: Mutter, mutter grumble…
As I pull Firefly through the airport at high speed I notice that she’s again without coffee and I realize that I have lost my cool and this flusters me to the extent that I stumble and spill my coffee all over the floor and onto a pretty lady’s white socks and sneaks. I recompose myself and apologise to the lady and the blur of people surrounding me who are looking at me as if I spilled my coffee on their white socks too and head to the front of the cue.
Firefly: (Now seriously doubting my sanity.) Are you sure..?
But I don’t answer because we’re there.
Uncle Evil: Our names etc., PA system, disaster at SAA, blah, blah etc.
Airport Moron #3: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.
Uncle Evil: It’s just that…
Airport Moron #3: Back of the line please.
We had to wait to get to the front of the cue for the clincher. Enter Airport Moron #4, looking terribly severe with crossed arms and a ridiculous tapping foot.
The absurd conversation that then ensued with Airport Morons #3, 4 and 5 was, well, just that. But basically they’d been trying to track us down because we had apparently not paid. Oops. So #4 harrumphs impatiently and frog marches us back to Check-In and I go through the credit card rigmarole as efficiently as I can and we run back and get re-searched and then it happens. Airport Moron #4, running ahead of us, slips in my coffee spill.
Even the dirty looks from the people on the shuttle who had been standing like cattle waiting for us couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off my face.
But the real belly laugh only came last night as I recounted my tale of woe to the woman who had made my original booking. It was with great disbelief that she then presented me with the original payment receipt. British Airways had pulled us off the tarmac in high drama and forced us to cough up for a flight that had already been paid for.
Nice.
posted by Uncle Evil at 2:30 AM
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