It was a traditional British morning in Heathrow (heavy clouds, wind, drizzle, you know the usual), as the mighty Boeing 777 wheels screeched on the runway during a rough touch down. The monstrous jet engines settle down to a gentle rumble, and the aircraft pulled in to the gate in Terminal 4.
A motorcade of vehicles pulled up outside of the Terminal, awaiting their passenger. Black Range Rover, after black Range Rover, after black Range Rover, after 1986 Ford Escort 1.4 GL Estate in Champagne Gold, after black Range Rover… I walk out of the terminal and get into my car.
With a police escort, we are rushed into central London to Buckingham Palace, where the queen awaited for an important meeting. The motorcade drove into the palace, and pulled up outside the door. I stepped out of my mighty steed that is my Escort, and entered the palace. A was steered towards a small conference room.
After meeting with the Queen, and giving her my report on the colony, I got into an open top saloon car, and we proceeded down The Mall in a big ticker tape parade…
And then I woke up. The damn plane hit the runway with all the force it could muster, in an attempt to shatter my spine. Then began the menagerie that is air travel. First to border/ passport control, which had a queue three miles along (even longer than a friggin’ roller coaster). Next was the event that is… baggage collection.
I don’t know what it is that makes me despise air travel the most. The 3 hour wait for the plane to depart, the 7 hour wait on the plane for it to arrive, or the 26 year wait that it takes to get your bags back! Honestly, could they make it an anymore long and drawn out process. This was made worse still, by the fact that they were using our baggage conveyor for two BA flights. Ours from Newark, and a second from Chicago.
It looked as though they were unloading the Chicago bags first, despite all of the people waiting were on the Newark flight. There were bags going around endlessly on that belt. I swear, that in the 45 minutes I spent waiting, the first 15-20 bags stayed exactly where they were, filling up the belt. And jus when you think you can see your bag coming around, someone else picks it up, as you realise it’s not your bag. I even picked a bag that was exactly like mine, until I checked the label, and then some young lady took.
Eventually, I walked through Customs, and came into the International Arrivals lounge, where there were loads of business men, and chauffeurs with boards. And at the very back, a lone women standing with dishevelled hair, waving like she had just escaped from a local looney bin. Yes, it was my Mum, obviously pleased to see me.
A long time ago, I stated that I really haven’t been on holiday, unless I have been to a Little Chef. This stems from years of holiday when I was younger on the Norfolk Broads. You could bet your life, that at some point during the trip (normally twice) we would go for a Little Chef as lunch or dinner or on the trip there or home. And so, for my very first meal in Britain since leaving for the states, I had a Little Chef Olympic Breakfast. And they do make good sausages…
So we carried on towards home, in my Dad’s car (Ernie was at home, we’d already discussed it), and it was taking forever. Because of the detour to the Little Chef, we had to take the back roads. So when we got near home, I was very excited in anticipation of seeing my beautiful car. I was talking with Andy (a very senior officer in the corps) and he asked if my car would be shiny and clean for my return.
A motorcade of vehicles pulled up outside of the Terminal, awaiting their passenger. Black Range Rover, after black Range Rover, after black Range Rover, after 1986 Ford Escort 1.4 GL Estate in Champagne Gold, after black Range Rover… I walk out of the terminal and get into my car.
With a police escort, we are rushed into central London to Buckingham Palace, where the queen awaited for an important meeting. The motorcade drove into the palace, and pulled up outside the door. I stepped out of my mighty steed that is my Escort, and entered the palace. A was steered towards a small conference room.
After meeting with the Queen, and giving her my report on the colony, I got into an open top saloon car, and we proceeded down The Mall in a big ticker tape parade…
And then I woke up. The damn plane hit the runway with all the force it could muster, in an attempt to shatter my spine. Then began the menagerie that is air travel. First to border/ passport control, which had a queue three miles along (even longer than a friggin’ roller coaster). Next was the event that is… baggage collection.
I don’t know what it is that makes me despise air travel the most. The 3 hour wait for the plane to depart, the 7 hour wait on the plane for it to arrive, or the 26 year wait that it takes to get your bags back! Honestly, could they make it an anymore long and drawn out process. This was made worse still, by the fact that they were using our baggage conveyor for two BA flights. Ours from Newark, and a second from Chicago.
It looked as though they were unloading the Chicago bags first, despite all of the people waiting were on the Newark flight. There were bags going around endlessly on that belt. I swear, that in the 45 minutes I spent waiting, the first 15-20 bags stayed exactly where they were, filling up the belt. And jus when you think you can see your bag coming around, someone else picks it up, as you realise it’s not your bag. I even picked a bag that was exactly like mine, until I checked the label, and then some young lady took.
Eventually, I walked through Customs, and came into the International Arrivals lounge, where there were loads of business men, and chauffeurs with boards. And at the very back, a lone women standing with dishevelled hair, waving like she had just escaped from a local looney bin. Yes, it was my Mum, obviously pleased to see me.
A long time ago, I stated that I really haven’t been on holiday, unless I have been to a Little Chef. This stems from years of holiday when I was younger on the Norfolk Broads. You could bet your life, that at some point during the trip (normally twice) we would go for a Little Chef as lunch or dinner or on the trip there or home. And so, for my very first meal in Britain since leaving for the states, I had a Little Chef Olympic Breakfast. And they do make good sausages…
So we carried on towards home, in my Dad’s car (Ernie was at home, we’d already discussed it), and it was taking forever. Because of the detour to the Little Chef, we had to take the back roads. So when we got near home, I was very excited in anticipation of seeing my beautiful car. I was talking with Andy (a very senior officer in the corps) and he asked if my car would be shiny and clean for my return.
Of course not.
Dad had dressed my car, like one of the characters from the Disney film cars, and my brother had spent his last few days, filling my car with 156 balloons. They were all pleased to see me back, I guess…
Well, now that I’m back, CATCOUK will probably return to normal service. And by that, I mean you should all expect delays, and disappointments. Welcome back to Britain!
If you think I should have stayed in the US, why not leave a comment, starting your message with ‘I can’t wait for you to go back next year’.
If you are pleased to have me back, why not leave a comment, starting your message with ‘I can’t wait for you to come back next year’.
Quote of the Week: ‘So, at the bottom of the ocean, there’s enough pressure to liquidise Hydrogen?’ asked my brother, after he questioned me on how water can exist without oxygen. I told him it only existed as pure Hydrogen at the very deepest part of the oceans.
Dad had dressed my car, like one of the characters from the Disney film cars, and my brother had spent his last few days, filling my car with 156 balloons. They were all pleased to see me back, I guess…
Well, now that I’m back, CATCOUK will probably return to normal service. And by that, I mean you should all expect delays, and disappointments. Welcome back to Britain!
If you think I should have stayed in the US, why not leave a comment, starting your message with ‘I can’t wait for you to go back next year’.
If you are pleased to have me back, why not leave a comment, starting your message with ‘I can’t wait for you to come back next year’.
Quote of the Week: ‘So, at the bottom of the ocean, there’s enough pressure to liquidise Hydrogen?’ asked my brother, after he questioned me on how water can exist without oxygen. I told him it only existed as pure Hydrogen at the very deepest part of the oceans.
2 comments:
Some of us are pleased to see you back - those darn Americans don't know how lucky they were that we lent you to them!
Wooo welcome back sir, Bless your family for filling up earnie!
What's it like to be home
Partario
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