Canada - When The Lights Go Out
By Davina Penny
Copyright Davina Powell 2011
Published at Smashwords
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Chapter 1 - Monday 4th August
Picture the scene. Steve has decided that it is best to weigh the luggage in advance. My view? Won’t make any difference (not to me anyway). Come hell or high water my bag is packed, everything inside is coming with us, and I am NOT going to take anything out. Everything inside is vital to my survival on this trip to Canada. All women know that it is important to have at least two shades of lipstick. One for pre-tan skin, and one for the bronzed glow we are aspiring to. Well, it follows reason that if you have two shades of lipstick, you will need at least two different sets of eye shadow. How guys cannot follow this logic is beyond me. And it also follows, that if the make-up is to look good, the skin must be in good condition also. Thus the facemask, exfoliator, nose peel, eye contour cream etc. Very important stuff. Obviously there are other vital products but I think you get the picture by now. I won’t even mention the hair products which are packed, but it is fair to say it does not stop at shampoo and conditioner only.
I never used to be like this though. I am 38 years old, and for the first 37 years of my life, soap and water followed by a rub with a towel was sufficient. Thanks to QVC, I have now become suitably paranoid that if I do not do some urgent repair work NOW, my face will look like my Nan’s by this time next week. No doubt about it. Steve will no longer love me, and I will be offered tickets to grab a granny night each time I pass the nightclubs. Heck I remember as a kid, my mum sometimes used to use washing up liquid on our hair if we had run out of the shampoo. (That awful medicated type that used to blind us for three hours each Sunday night when we had our hair washed. Heck kids get taken into care for less these days). Now? I have two leading stylists products lined up on my bathroom shelf in order of application – shampoo, conditioner, volumizer, colour enhancer, shine enhancer, anti-frizz serum etc. You name it, I have got it (somewhere anyway, and probably as yet unused, but you never know – it is going to be needed one day at least).
Of course clothes are important too. At least 8 pairs of knickers are shoved inside shoes to save room. (I am a dab hand at washing them through or getting them cleaned somehow. Besides which, I have only got eight pairs which have not lost their colour, or elastic properties). I swear if anyone were to search the case, it would cross their mind that I am hiding something – who else shoves underwear far down inside shoes like that? And that is another good reason to only pack the decent ones. You may have your case searched, and your private garments aired for everyone else on your flight to see. Funny if it happens to someone else, but a different story if it happens to you.
Courtesy of the local License discount shop in Peterborough, I have packed an entire new wardrobe too. Each item was a fiver or less which had my name written on it, as soon as I saw what was on display as I passed the open doorway. For the first time ever, I am actually going to be dressed the part on holiday. Yes ladies and gentlemen, the three quarter length cotton trousers are there. They hang somewhat lower on my hips than I wanted, but I intent being hip for the first time in my life, builders bum or not.
All of this, along with two puzzle books, two novels and three decks of tarot cards are either shoved inside the suitcase or are inside my handbag, which is large enough to be considered a rucksack. All of this had been packed three days earlier. I had my list of what to take, and had methodically ticked it all off as it was ceremoniously folded and placed inside the required space. Yes, I know packing three days before hand is a bit ludicrous, but I like to be prepared, with none of the last minute flapping around that usually accompanies holiday preparations. And forget the argument about the creases. By the time a case is packed, been lugged to a car, driven to an airport, been thrown onto the conveyor belt at check in (where you really hope and pray the scales are out), and then thrown into the plane hold with a dozen other cases, ALL clothes are going to be creased anyway. My little crease caused by the early packing is going to be totally irrelevant when the case is opened for the first time at the other end.
Steve has packed his own case. Fine by me. I ironed his stuff, and that is where my responsibility ended. If one thing was forgotten, then I would not be able to get the blame. He had also been shopping for new outfits. His case was hosting 6 new pairs of drawers (boxers only – he is definitely not a Y front man), new socks, and thank goodness, a new pair of swimming trunks that actually nearly reach his knees. I would have died if he had taken the old pair with him, following an unintentional flashing of his meat and two veg at a recent BBQ we had attended. I spent ages trying to find a way of telling him that his tackle was showing, but without arousing the attention of those who had not already noticed. In the end I just blurted it out, but he took it in good part. Either the ladies had not noticed, or were too polite to say anything. He is not that small, so I am guessing it was the latter.
We are now in the bedroom with the bathroom scales sitting ceremoniously in the middle of the floor. I am lounging on the bed watching with some amusement at the process that unfolds, not sure whether to carry on reading or observe Steve as he tried to be serious whilst weighing the cases.
Steve starts off by weighing himself. He then picks up his suitcase, and again stands on the scales.
“There you go – eighteen kilograms. No problem.”
I watched him getting off the scales, which I swear sighed in relief.
“Try it again though – you know how they change quite often.”
The process is dutifully repeated.
“Err, eighteen and a half.” He actually sounded surprised but I did not batter an eyelid. I have used these scales many times, and have seen my weight go up by over a kilogram in the space of five minutes before. This goes on for some time, and each time the reading is different.
“Do you want to try mine now?” I enquired. I just knew it was going to be heavier, but as I have already said, I was not going to do anything about it.
“Yep, yours is heavier. You’ve got nineteen kilo’s. Hang on, better weigh the rucksack.”
With this, Steve got off, weighed himself sans luggage (again), saw that he had a change in weight (again) and picked up the rucksack. We are allowed five kilos of hand luggage per person. Courtesy of his laptop (which has sat on his lap more times than I have in the last five months) the bag weighed around nine kilograms. I was almost smirking at this stage, because my handbag weighed less than three. And that was including a kilogram of sweets I had packed for the journey. Well, it is an eight-hour flight at the end of the day, and the food is normally cak that they serve you with. I would have had two kilos of chocolate packed in the case too, but decided to take it out at the last minute. We were on a touring holiday, and chocolate in a suitcase inside a car with temperatures at approximately 80 degrees did not seem such a hot idea in the end.
“I should get away with it,” he retorted. I am allowed a laptop as extra luggage, so it won’t count towards the weight.”
Another example of man being classed as a superior species. How the heck can they get away with having such a perk given to them? Since when has a laptop become vital? These were my thoughts now, but believe me, later into the holiday I was almost prepared to marry the damn thing it was that useful to us. In fact, on occasions, if someone had said I had to choose between Steve and that piece of metal, there would have been no contest. You could have happily called me Mrs. Fuhitso, or whatever it is called.
“Look Steve, I think we are going to have to go. It won’t matter too much. Besides, Leonard said that they don’t charge much for excess baggage. We’ll be fine.”
I had to put a stop to this, because I knew if Steve had to decide to take something out, we would be late for the plane which was leaving in 20 hours time. Whether to take out a pair of socks, or a pair of boxers would be too much of a decision for him to make without analysing the pros and cons involved. To do the process justice, a flip chart would need to be involved. I wonder if all electronics engineers are as indecisive?
With that, we did a final check of the house, gave Sugar the rabbit a last fuss, and loaded the car. He was being looked after one of his mates, and I had no worries about leaving him like this. He had been cleaned out, food left, and a kitchen cupboard full of treats. Heck he was being more pampered than ever, so would not miss us one little bit. (I know what you are thinking here – how could anyone call a male rabbit Sugar, but it was not my doing okay? He has not had an identity crisis about it, so no need to call the RSPCA or anything – he is a very well balanced and chilled out rabbit).
We made it to the car, and sat looking at each over.
“You ready?” Steve asked as he put on his sunglasses, big grin on his face.
You bet I was. This trip had been booked for two weeks, and I was more than ready. We were both thinking pretty much the same thing: “CANADA HERE WE COME!!”
Top tips:
1) Let your partner pack his or her own case. This will undoubtedly prevent a possible domestic later in the holiday should an item be missing. You can honestly answer the questions at the airport too, if it is packed independently.
2) Throw away the bathroom scales. (Particularly if they are digital). If you are underweight there is no problem, and to be honest if you are horrendously over the allowed weight, you will know it soon enough when you try to lift the damn thing into the car. I really do believe that you will only fill the space you have. If you take a reasonable size case to start with, you will only take what will go in it. Stands to reason? Thus if you insist on buying one of the biggest on the market, you will sub-consciously think you have to fill it. Believe me, you will. And will then be surprised when you are charged for it at the airport. This happened to a friend of mine who I was travelling with on one occasion, and she honestly thought she could take out some of the stuff and put it into her hand luggage. Alas, she got charged for that instead.
3) Try to take the stress out of the drive to the airport, by either leaving during the night (certainly the case if the M25 is involved), or better still, by leaving the night before and staying at a nearby hotel. The last thing you want, is a stressful domestic due to the fact that you have been caught up in the traffic jam from hell, with only an hour to spare before you have to board. Because if it is going to happen, you can guarantee it will happen to YOU. It will be nobody’s fault, but you will still end up arguing about it. Not the best start to the holiday though is it?
Chapter 2 – Later that evening
We were now on the road south, with Steve driving us toward our overnight stopping hotel, just outside of Gatwick. We were heading towards Peterborough, with me being dwarfed by the open road map. I knew where we were heading, and did not really need it, but it is a kind of habit I have. I just love looking as though I was experienced at this sort of thing. It is also a hoot finding as many place names as you can, that sound utterly ridiculous, and if they had not been in the map would have been cited as being made up names. Anything with ‘bottom’ in it elicits a snigger or two.
“What do you reckon?” he asked, “M11 or A1?”
Oh heck, he was asking me to make a decision again. He is perfectly capable of deciding himself, but throws most things at me that have a choice attached. I just hate it when he does that. If I ask him to decide, he spends ages going to and from the options, with the hopeful look in his eyes that I will take over and opt for one of them. And I hate doing it! I used to always jump in spontaneously and make the decision each time, but I have learned over the months to be patient and let him come to a decision. I found that if I made the decision, and for some reason it turned out not to be the best one, I would feel very inferior and insecure. Especially if he said those immortal words of “we should have…..”.
The amount of times I have stopped myself shouting out “well, why the bloody hell didn’t you then!”.
On this occasion I stayed quiet for as long as I could, burying myself further and further into the open map. I was doing my best to be intensely interested in Reading.
“What do you reckon?” he said, looking over at me. “Which is going to be quicker?”
I looked at the clock on the dashboard and registered the time of 4.00pm.
“Don’t know that it makes any difference,” I replied vaguely as I hid my face in the map. “All the traffic is going to be heading out of London anyway so the M25 is going to be a nightmare no matter where we join it.”
“Which joins nearer Gatwick though?”
I had a quick scan. “The M11 does by the looks of it. Cuts a fair bit off.”
That was it. Decision made, and I had a sneaky feeling he had somehow turned it around so that it was my decision. Guys can be so devious and clever at doing that at times – and they think we are the more devious of the human species. Mind you, I was quite chuffed – I had sussed out the route WITHOUT THE NEED FOR TURNING THE MAP UPSIDE DOWN! One point allocated to girl power for that one I reckon. I have never had to move the map around if we turned a corner etc, and am quite impressed with my map reading abilities. Men just love it when we get it wrong, even if it is just by a small margin. They sort of have that smug expression of “Told you – women just cannot map read like we can.” Steve has never been able to do that with me, and to be honest, I don’t think he would dare. He knows if he did, all decisions after that would have to be his, and that just does not bear thinking about.
Now the decision had been made (not sure who by, but if it went wrong I would do the gallant thing and take responsibility for it), I could sit back and relax a bit. The traffic on the A1 was pretty light, and stayed amazingly light as we pulled onto the A14 heading towards Cambridge. I should apologise at this stage if I come across as a bit “wooden” in my description of the journey. I used to be a policewoman, and for many years was used to the police jargon of “I was proceeding in a northerly direction”, and other similar crap. It is amazing how brainwashed you can become when you have used the same phrases and terminology for eighteen years. Magistrates who have to listen to that drivel all the time must get well and truly brassed off with it. I promise to try and avoid using it here though.
After about three miles, I saw the usual ominous sight ahead of us on the dual carriageway – brake lights, and lots of them. This was followed by all the traffic ahead of us slowing down until it came to a complete standstill. Traffic the other way was sailing merrily past us.
It was at this stage, Steve decided to put the traffic announcement system on, which would override the radio with any local horror stories of black spots. Shortly after this, we were rewarded with a cheerful voice from some far away studio telling us that there had been an accident on the A14 somewhere near the M11, closing that side of the road down. Naturally it was our side of the road, and naturally, it had occurred miles ahead where we were trying to join the M11. This equated to a bloody long traffic jam.
We were both relieved that we had decided to travel down that night instead of some unearthly hour the next morning. If that had happened with a few hours to go before our flight was due to depart, you would have been digging my fingernails out of the dashboard for some time to come. Which would have been a real shame because I had spent ages the previous night airbrushing a design onto them.
Therefore Steve was forced into making a decision. He turned round at the next junction, and drove back to the A1. In total we had lost only about 20 minutes, but he still muttered those immortal words “if only we had……”
The A1 must be up there as one of the most boring roads in the country, but to give it credit I have never yet been held up on it. Most people opt for the neighbouring M1, which does leave it relatively free. And it was taking us the right way which was another bonus.
Two hours later, we pulled into the services at South Mimms and had a welcome break from the heat in the car. The summer was really warming up, and we were relieved to be heading away from what was being muted as the hottest summer for decades. The weather forecast had predicted temperatures hitting 100 degrees the following week, which is way too hot for comfort. It felt that it had already started, and as I got out of the car, I had to do the unlady like thing of unsticking my trousers from my backside. Thank goodness his Peugeot did not have leather seats. As we headed towards the main doors, I discreetly pulled my knickers out also, hoping that no-one had noticed.
After relieving ourselves we had to then decide on what to eat, but that was made instantly by Steve, after only a nanosecond of thought – KFC.
Why? Because he is addicted to them. I swear if I had the recipe on how to make their Zinger towers he would have proposed on our first date. We knew from a previous holiday in America that they don’t really make them in the same way, so he was going to have one last meal here, and enjoy it, as it was likely to be the last for over two weeks. A sort of condemned man’s last supper if you like. By now, we were only about an hour from Gatwick, and a welcome bed.
The flight was due to leave at noon, so we had to be at the airport by 10.00am to check in. Driving down that same morning just did not bear thinking about. We had done some checks on the Internet, and had telephoned around, trying to get quotes for airport parking. Amazingly the cheapest we could get was £109. Yep, we had been caught in the trap of flying during the peak period. Everyone with children knows what I am talking about, as do others who have no choice but to fly during the school holidays. We had flown to America the previous December, and the parking fee was a fraction of what we had just been quoted for this trip.
However, there is an alternative, which is what we had opted for. Steve had been told by one of his mates that it might be cheaper to actually stay at a nearby hotel, which also offers to park your car for you, for the duration of the holiday. I had not been aware that such places existed, but true to form, we found hundreds of such establishments were scattered around all the major airports. Looking at some of the pictures, most of them also looked quite nice, and different to the fleapit I had imagined would be willing to offer rooms that would only get used for the one night only. This is where it now gets crazy. Remember – the price we had been quoted for parking the car at the airport was £109. The price for 15 nights parking, and an overnight stay in a hotel for the two of us? £85. Yep, nearly £25 cheaper. Go figure that one out. So, we decided to take up that option, and had booked the room in advance on the Internet. I hate computers at the best of times, and have often badmouthed the Internet as being the downward spiral to people not talking to each other face to face anymore. I reckon that is why we will eventually find that Martian beings have no mouths. It will be because they haven’t talked to each other for years, and chat via Yahoo or something instead. They probably have silly user names to go with it as well. I have to begrudgingly admit though, that it does have its uses, and this was an example of one of them.
We had decided to stay at a place called Russ Hill, which according to the map and directions was only about eight miles from the south terminal. We had printed the map out, and I had been charged with giving directions once we had passed the south terminal turn off.
At about 8.00pm we were on the A23 heading past the airport. According to the map, the hotel should be no more than a few miles away, but I was not going to take that for gospel. However, we were pleasantly surprised to see that in fact it was spot on with regards to accuracy, and that the hotel was set in some lovely grounds at a village called Charlwood. We had the feeling though that we were not exactly going to be welcomed with open arms by the villagers. Every few yards we saw placards at the road sign all with the same message “We say no to another Gatwick runway,” or something similar. (I can’t quite recall the exact words, but the message was pretty clear). I had to have some sympathy with them to be honest. The village was really pretty and quiet. Another runway nearby was going to be devastating for them, let alone the extra traffic it was going to bring, with others like us trying to tip toe to the hotels, attempting to be as unobtrusive as possible. I guess only time will tell if they do win the fight on the issue, but it would be a shame for sure if the landscape were to be spoiled.
As we pulled into the car parking area (the hotel had been very well signposted all the way which had been a bonus), we were met with a sight we were not expecting. The hotel was to our right and looked splendid with its white walls and lawned gardens. Very impressive indeed, and exactly as depicted in the literature on the Internet. To the left we were met with the sight of what appeared to be a supermarket car park on a Bank holiday. There were rows upon rows of cars parked, each of them without about an inch of space either side of them to park in. You could not have got any more cars in there without first putting them through a crusher. We both looked at each other and had identical thoughts: “How the heck are we going to find a space in there?” The rows went on for what appeared to be miles, confirming that we were not the only people who had decided to stick two fingers up at the car parking prices at the airport.
Steve hesitated for a few seconds before deciding to try the left hand turning.
“Good luck”, I murmured and settled down for the evening’s entertainment.
We drove the whole length of the car park, came round the other side and were then stuck at a T-junction.
“Which way do you reckon?” he asked, looking both ways for some divine inspiration.
“Not sure”, I said. “Try that way”, as I vaguely waved to a small track to my right. He took this route, and we found ourselves back to where we started. Not a good start. We had seen a couple of spaces in the car park on the first circuit, but did not hold much hope that they were going to be big enough. With resignation, we repeated the journey, taking it a little slower on this occasion in the hope that we may have missed one on the first lap. Half way up, we saw a gap that was sort of big enough for his Peugeot, but it was going to be a tight squeeze getting into it. I breathed in as much as I could in order to create a vacuum, and thus shrink the car, closed my eyes and silently wished him all the best. Seconds later, he had turned off the engine, and was getting his stuff ready. We had made it! I did not even want to think of how the hotel staff were going to move it to take it to the car park, but heck, it was not my car so I wasn’t too bothered.
A few minutes later we were standing in the queue at the check in desk, suitcases pushed to one side. It was obvious by the presence of other such stuffed luggage that this hotel was a very popular choice with the holiday crowds.
Steve dutifully completed the paperwork, which included the purchase of tickets for the courtesy bus ride to the airport the next morning. The transport left every hour which was very handy indeed. We then toddled off to the room we had been allocated. Thankfully it was on the ground floor so we would not need to run the gauntlet of stairs or temperamental lifts.
“Well, we’re here now,” said Steve as he put the key in the door. “The holiday has now started.”
I was grinning with agreement as he opened the door and I poured in through it, suitcase closely following behind. At which point the grin disappeared when I saw what was on the other side of the door.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. “It’s awful.”
All I could do was stop and stare.
“We have a partition as a main wall,” I said in disbelief, eyeing the dark green, heavily marked sliding partition to the right of me. Steve pushed pass me and gave the surroundings the once over.
“Looks like it is really a family room split into two,” he mused. “You can see how they fold it back when it’s not being used. Very clever.” Only an engineer could see the mechanics involved instead of the squalor that was surrounding us.
“And look!” I shouted. “The window backs onto the car park!” I was at this stage hoping beyond hope that the air conditioning worked, because it would not be practical to have the window open all night, for the chance of any non-present cool breeze. With the heat wave we had suffered for days, you would have had more chance of knitting with fog than of having a night-time breeze come wafting through.
“It’s up to you,” he said, flopping onto the bed. “We can upgrade the room if you like. You did say at the time of the booking you would be happy with the cheaper one.”
Yes, once again I had made a decision, and boy had I got it wrong. The upgraded room was only about £10 more expensive, but I always see that as being £10 we could spend on something whilst on holiday. Look after the pennies, and the pounds will look after themselves etc. Besides, on the Internet site the hotel looked so nice, I imagined that even the economy rooms would be better than most I had stayed in. I rationalised everything in the space of about one second and declared, “No – this will be fine. It is only for one night and I am sure I can handle it for just one night. We’ll stay.”
“Okay. Will be back in a tick. Got to go and sort the car out.”
With that he leapt off the bed, and went back outside, leaving me to figure out how the TV set worked. It was one of those old portable ones with a turning dial on the front, instead of the infrared remote control I had gotten used to since being with Steve. I tentatively pressed a button on the front, had a bit of a twiddle and found BBC 1. In black, white and a sort of green. I was pretty sure that there was a colour contrast button somewhere, but reasoned that probably every other guest had tried that, so didn’t even bother trying to find it. Phil Mitchell would just have to stay green looking. It was just as well we were not going to be watching snooker that evening.
I was just getting settled when Steve came back. Only he did not look quite as happy as when he had left.
“What’s up?”
“I have just written over my insurance to someone who will be driving my car” he said, looking the most serious I had seen him since we had left home.
“How do you mean?”
“It means that they do not have fully comp insurance to move my car. If they have an accident, they are not covered for any damage to my car.”
This was pretty serious, as his Peugeot is his pride and joy. The thought of someone else driving it was bad enough, but the fact they would not be covered for any damage was fairly worrying.
“With any luck they won’t be able to start it, so it will have to stay there,” he muttered, more in hope than anything. In fact there was a good chance of this happening, because he has a bit under the bonnet that gets stuck regularly, causing the car not to start. It is usually rectified by a great whack with a hammer, but any hotel employee would not know this. I saw it as caught between a rock and a hard place though. If it stayed where it was for two weeks there must be a chance of having the doors hit by neighbouring cars. Poor Steve. I knew he would be worrying now about the car, but there was not a lot we could do at this late stage of events. As he was deep in thought, he glanced over at the television set.
“It’s green,” he said, stating the obvious.
“The red ray tube has gone.”
This meant diddly squat to me, and did not even go anywhere near to explaining why the picture was green, and I did not even dare ask. However, he is a guy, and this did not stop him having a fiddle to see if he could improve the picture. It was never going to happen though, so Phil continued to look green, albeit a slightly different, more fetching shade. I should have guessed that a green television set was going to be like a red rag to a bull to an electronics engineer. Show them anything that is not working, and they can’t resist having a play with it.
About an hour later, we were both in bed, hoping that the early night would help us the next day with any jet lag we may feel. Although Canada only has a five-hour time difference, the flight was going to be a long one that would mean us being awake for around twenty hours or so. I had taken a Nytol with the aim being, a good period of eight hours uninterrupted sleep.
Steve could fall asleep on a clothesline if necessary and it was not long before he was gently snoring, unaided by any drugs.
I glanced over at him lying there next to me, looking all angelic and cute. I knew once again, that I was the luckiest woman on the planet, and was about to go on holiday with the person I loved more than I could ever describe. This was going to be our second proper holiday together, and I couldn’t wait. I was really looking forward to the idea of spending fourteen days with the love of my life. With that, I gave him a gentle kiss on his forehead so as not to wake him, and settled in myself.
Top tips:
1) Look around for deals regarding airport parking, using sources such as the Internet and holiday shops. You may find that the hotels offering an overnight stay may be a better option. (Particularly if you want to avoid an overnight drive ahead of the flight). This could definitely prove to be a better option during peak travel times.
2) Take note of the small print on the hotel literature. If they are
offering an economy room, make sure that you are happy with what that will entail before accepting it. Remember – the pictures shown on advertising sites will show the best features of the hotel, not the small back rooms that have been converted from something else in order to accommodate the numbers of visitors/guests.
3) If you have concerns about leaving your car in the care of
hotel employees, make sure you are aware of, and are happy with the insurance cover in place at the time. Also, check where the car will be parked whilst you are on holiday, as it may well be the case that it will be moved to a different location to where you originally left it.
Chapter 3 – Tuesday 5th August
I sat bolt upright, wide awake. Steve was still asleep next to me, snoring like a pneumatic drill as I checked the clock behind me. 1.30am, and it was still pretty dark outside. Bloody marvellous. I had taken the Nytol in the hope of a really good night’s sleep, only to be woken up by what sounded like a large party in the room next door. The partition was offering next to no soundproofing, and I could hear pretty much all of what was being said, although I couldn’t understand any of it. The family who had moved in were of Asian origin, and were not speaking English. Rather than appear ignorant and insulting, I would not even dare an attempt at identifying the dialect. Suffice to say, the woman of the house was the loudest by far, and it appeared from the tone of voice, that she was exceedingly brassed off with something. (Probably the fact that the room had a partition, and that the TV set was not working).
The longer the conversation went on, the louder she became.
There were occasional mutterings from the more subservient members of the room, which on their own would have been okay. I did my best to get back to sleep, but it was near on impossible. I was as wide-awake as I could be, with still at least five hours until daybreak.
I resigned myself to the situation, and lay back, alternating my attention between Steve’s snores, and the tirade in the next room. At one stage, Steve did wake up. The snore turned into a sort of snort, as he opened his eyes and looked at me with the groggy ‘I’ve just woken up’ look.
“You okay darl?” he mumbled.
“Yep – just been woken up by the noise next door.”
“Okay,” he replied. “Try to get some sleep.”
With that he closed his eyes, and within two seconds was back in the land of nod. All I could do was stare at him astounded, partly with jealousy and partly with admiration.
How do guys do that? Why is it that they can sleep through all hell breaking loose around them, and we wake up as soon as a floorboard creaks? It is one of life’s mysteries, but believe me I would sell my soul for their secret to this phenomenon. In fact I would do a swap; our secret for being able to smell out bullshit from 100 yards away, for their ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. Seems a fair exchange to me.
Eventually I must have fallen asleep because I was woken by the sound of a clock alarm at 6.00am. The problem was, it was not mine – it belonged to the owner the other side of the partition. Mine was not due to go off until 8.00am.
Soon after the ringing had been stopped, I heard the voices again. But, it was somewhat confusing. The voices were distinctly English, and the male/female input was fairly equal.
What the heck had happened? I am absolutely certain the earlier voices had not been of English descent, but these were obviously Yorkshire or similar. Had I had a bad dream, induced by the drug I had taken? Had the earlier KFC repeated on me? Or had the room had a very fast turnaround of clientele? Was it one of those hotels that rents rooms by the hour or something?
I would never know the answer, but it was certainly going through my mind as I listened to the couple talking about the forthcoming flight.
The female was on her mobile phone at one stage, and it was from this conversation that I learned they were bound for Mexico that morning. That had been my choice of holiday destination, but was dismissed when I realised that it would be way too hot for comfort over there at this time of year. A Christmas visit had been planned (Steve will do anything to avoid spending Christmas day with his mother), but that was also dismissed as a plan, when we saw that we would need to sell our house and bodies to pay for it at that time of year.
The couple next door were up and about very quickly, as it transpired that their flight left before ours. At 7.00am I was left with a welcome silence as I mentally prepared for the holiday ahead of us. Canada was going to be an unknown quantity to us both, but I was really looking forward to the whole experience. We had no real plans in fact. Once we collected the car at the other end, we were going to find somewhere to hole up for the night and would then take each day as it came, spending the night in different locations, depending on where we were at the time.
I reached behind me and turned my alarm clock off, safe in the knowledge that I was now awake until such time we had to get up.
Our suitcases were packed ready, with our travel clothes available on the back of the chair. I am used to immediately unpacking when the destination is reached, but due to the fact we would be literally living out of the suitcase I was getting some practise in of only taking out what was needed for that immediate few hours time period.
At 8.20am we were both busying ourselves getting ready. We were both pretty excited by the whole idea, but were still in that ‘I have not yet woken up’ frame of mind, so we didn’t really say that much to each other as we dressed.
Steve dutifully did the checking out, as I looked at the TV screen above the desk. Rather thoughtfully the hotel had installed a screen showing the details of the arrivals and departures at the airport. The one for Canada was going to be in a few pages time, so we didn’t bother waiting to see the details.
Once we had checked out, we joined the small group of people outside the hotel, all waiting for the courtesy coach to take them to their relevant terminal. It was quite interesting looking at all the labels on the suitcase handles as I tried to discreetly see where everyone was heading. The sizes of the cases always amuse me. It is always easy to see the people who have packed absolutely everything they can – they seem to have the floral print material styled cases. The youths are also easy to find – they are the ones with just a small holdall and rucksack to their name. I have to admire the way that they can breeze through a holiday with just the bare essentials, with no more than two pairs of clean underwear as spares.
The day was really starting to feel warm, even though it was only 9.00am. I just knew that we were going to appreciate the cooler weather in Canada, as England had been forecast for temperatures of 100 degrees – warmer than what it was in Mexico at the time, which was rather ironic.
A few minutes later, a small red minibus turned into the forecourt.
“Anyone for south terminal?” the driver bellowed as he opened the side door for the luggage. A few of us bustled forward and handed over the bags, which were handled very carefully and considerately. We then queued up by the door, waiting to board.
“Tickets please,” he shouted as he opened the door forward. Steve had already got them ready.
“Return tickets too – I want them as well.”
“You sure?” asked Steve, a bit taken aback by this.
“Yeah, they never ask for them on the return leg, so we take them now.”
Bit strange, but we were not in the position to question the logic, so both tickets were handed over.
The bus was delightfully cool as we meandered our way through the country lanes to the terminals. It was at this stage that we were reminded of how narrow the village lanes were. The sight of this bus thundering down every hour, must have really rubbed salt into the wounds for them, that they were within a stone's throw of one of the biggest and busiest airports in the country.
Eventually we pulled into the drop off area outside of the departures lounge, and it finally hit me that I was actually now on holiday. It had been many years since I had travelled from Gatwick, and I had forgotten how big the place was. I used to watch Airport regularly on television, and laughed when the personnel claimed that they had a twenty minute walk or more, to get from one place to another. Surely no airport terminal is that big. If you allow for an average speed, it would mean that the building would be over a mile long. However, I started to believe their claims as we hunted for our check in desk around area J. Now I understand why you are advised to arrive two hours prior to departure time – it is to allow plenty of time to find your way to the check in area.
After a short hunt, we found it next to some American airlines, which appeared to have about 20 check in desks. Our Air Transaat check in area had only three or four desks open, and the queue was fairly short. From my inexperienced viewpoint, it appeared to be a very small company. We were about tenth in line, when I was aware of a couple of women join the queue behind us. I heard them before I saw them, or rather I heard one woman in particular. When I turned round, I saw a very young petite woman, standing next to Godzilla in a dress. The younger girl was almost giving me an apologetic look, and I felt a little sorry for her. I was not sure if the older woman was her mother, but she was certainly talking to her as if she was a child. Unfortunately, half the airport must have been able to hear her also. I gave the younger woman a smile that I hoped appeared sympathetic, and turned my attention back to the queue that had shuffled forward a few feet. I moved forward to fill in the gap, but was immediately bellowed at from behind.
“Is that your case?”
I turned round and saw that I had moved forward okay, but had left my case behind. It was approximately five feet behind me. I mumbled an apology, reached behind and pulled it forward. Easily done, and I am sure I am not the first person to be caught in the world of day dreaming at a check in queue.
“That could be a security alert you know, hello!” the whale sized apparition shouted after me. I glanced over at Steve who had winced at this, and stared straight ahead. I was sending out private pleas that she be somewhere near the middle of the plane (for stability to the aircraft), but far enough away from us so as not to be annoying for the duration of the trip.
Now, I do not mean to come across as being intolerant of larger sized people. In fact it is the opposite. It was her larger than life voice that was the problem. It just seemed to me that her more than ample size had given her a good-sized pair of lungs with which to vocalise.
She was also approached by a smartly dressed man working on behalf of Air Transaat. He had also spoken to us a short while earlier, so I knew what was coming, but had no choice but to tune in.
“Hello ladies, are you travelling to Toronto?”
“Yes, why? What has it got to do with you?” was the short reply sent back.
I could see that this had really taken him aback somewhat.
”We are just making sure that you are in the correct queue for your flight, and not queuing unnecessarily,” he whimpered, realising he was now confronting the scariest female he had ever encountered. No amount of training would have prepared him for this sort of aggression in response to a courtesy type question.
“Well, of course we are in the right queue,” she shouted.” What has this got to do with you?”
The poor man did reply, but he was backing off at the same time so I did not hear all of what had been said. By now, I was starting to really feel sorry for the poor personnel actually working as check in clerks. I had visions of about four fingers all hovering over the emergency alarm buttons hidden under the desks, as they prayed not to be the unlucky one tasked with checking her baggage in.
About ten minutes later we had reached the front of the queue and were asked to put our bags on the scales, hand luggage first.
True to form, Steve’s was well over weight, but he had a triumphant smug look as he produced the laptop, as a magician would produce a rabbit from a hat. Mine was only two and a half kilos, which was pretty cool considering at least one kilo was down to the bag of sweets I had packed for the holiday.
The main luggage was well within the weight limit, and we were just about to move away when the guy behind the desk uttered those immortal words – the words that send dread into the heart of every traveller by air:
“There is a slight delay to your flight. Due to a problem with the passengers in Canada, you will not now be leaving until 3.00pm.” I just looked at the guy in shocked silence, but he would not make eye contact. Naturally they are trained in how to deal with this situation, and this is a coping tactic they adopt: don’t make eye contact, and hopefully the passenger won’t ask a load of stupid questions.
We both did a very quick mental calculation and realised that we were going to face a three-hour delay. This meant that we now had five and half hours to kill. Bloody marvellous.
We moved off, and then formed a plan of action.
“Breakfast?” Steve suggested.
Sounded a good idea to me, so we set off on the trail of a good restaurant on the next floor. We split up, looked at menus and then re-grouped to decide.
The winner was Frankie and Benny’s which had a really good looking full English breakfast menu. We knew we were going to eat a load of crap and junk food on this holiday, so it was not the time to be sanctimonious and eat half crisp bread with orange juice. Besides which, the aircraft food was going to be an unknown quantity so it made sense to fill up before hand.
The service at the restaurant was absolutely first class. The place was extremely busy, but the waiters and waitresses were exceedingly fast and efficient. In addition the food was superb, and also reasonably priced by airport standards. We both ate slowly, in the vain hope that it would take up a large proportion of the time we had left to kill before boarding. However, there is only so slow you can go before the staff decide to add you to the rent book as a resident guest, so after half an hour we moved off to look in the various shops. None of them really had caught my eye, and after a quick visit to the bookshop, I realised that I was not likely to be buying anything.
It sort of makes a mockery of the booking in system though. When you arrive, your bags are weighed to within the nearest tenth of a kilogram. Woe betide anyone who is over the required limit. You are then free to wander around all the shops, spend until you have run out of money, and double your baggage weight, with no danger of it being weighed again. How does that work?
With about three hours to go before the flight, we decided to walk on through to the departure lounge area. Security is always going to be in issue for us, due to Steve’s insistence on taking as many legal gadgets as he can fit into his bag and on his belt. I have been with him for two and half years now, and know him to be the sweetest guy around. Seriously, he would not hurt a fly which is one of the things I love him for. Stop him on the streets and conduct a random search, and you would be forgiven for thinking that he was out to assassinate someone. As a minimum he will have three knives, and two Swiss army type gadgets somewhere in his camera bag. (The small scissors come in handy when I have broken a nail though). This is in addition to three torches, two of which could blind you from a distance of about a hundred yards.
In lieu of this, I thought it would be a good idea to go first so as not to appear as though I was with him should they decide on a full body cavity search.
True to form, my bags went through safely, and I walked through the metal detector without activating it, even though I was wearing a fairly chunky neck chain and pendant.
As I turned around, I heard a woman saying, “Can I look in your bags please?”
I just knew without actually looking, that she was talking to Steve. Sure enough she was. I watched with some amusement as he methodically emptied his rucksack, showing her the gadgets housed within. After a few minutes of being told about the properties of the camera, laptop etc, she waved him through. To be honest, I was not sure if it was because she was happy in the knowledge that he was not a terrorist, or whether it was due to sheer boredom.
I glanced behind him and saw that he had been the cause of the increase in queue length. I resigned myself to the fact that there would no doubt be more occasions where he would be searched due to the contents of his baggage. That was even taking into account he had left the knives at home.
“What do we do now?” he asked, looking around at the half empty hall of seats, surrounded by yet more of the same shops and restaurants we had seen the other side of the security passport area.
“Dunno,” I responded.
“We could do what we usually do – take it in turns to look in the shops whilst one of us watches the bags.”
Steve went first, whilst I found a row of four unoccupied seats that I converted into a makeshift bed. I was feeling a little dozy, and it was not long before I was catnapping, with the sounds of the people around me becoming more and more muted. I’m not too sure when I woke up, but it was to the sun streaming through the glass windows in the ceiling above, hitting my face full on.
Once the initial glare had gone, I saw that Steve had done his shopping and had come back to relieve me.
Feeling a bit groggy, I sat up, handed over the reins of control to him, (I had been guarding his rucksack all the time) and wombled off for a tour of the duty free area.
This invariably only ever takes me about ten minutes because I rarely drink, and don’t smoke at all. I am still using the perfume I had bought the previous Christmas whilst in America, so that ruled that section out too. This was shaping up to be an all time record for me – until I saw the make-up and cosmetics section. It sort of kept calling me, caressing my name as it drew me towards the colourful rows of lipsticks and eye shadows. There was no way I could resist, so I succumbed gracefully. I just knew at the back of my mind that I needed more lipstick like I needed a hole in the head, but the lure was too great.
I must have looked like a kid caught with a free rein in a sweet shop as I compared shades and brands.
However, ten minutes later, I was dead proud of myself as I left the store – I had resisted all urges and bought absolutely nothing! This was all followed by whistle stop tour of the Body Shop before returning to where Steve was sitting, and hopefully another catnap prior to the flight.
The sun had moved round considerably so I talked Steve into moving to a different area where once again I could stretch out for a while. This time though, sleep was being elusive so I gave up the ghost and half-heartedly worked on one of the puzzle books.
At exactly 2.00pm we decided to wander down to the departure gate itself, having exhausted all the possible entertainment facilities and shops in the main hall area.
Again, the size of the airport was confirmed to me when we saw where we were headed. The information sign was advising us to leave fifteen minutes for the journey! Heck, what county were we heading to?
When we arrived, we saw that a sizeable crowd had already gathered around the gate. Previous experience led me to believe that we would be boarding at around 2.40pm.
At 2.45pm no call had been made.
At 3.00pm there was still no movement at the desk. By this stage, I was starting to get a bit twitchy. Our departure time had come and gone, and we were still all staring out at our plane that was so tantalisingly close.
“Calm down,” Steve whispered after I had checked his watch for the umpteenth time.
“We will get there don’t worry.”
“I know,” I whispered. “But this is bloody stupid. Why can’t someone just tell us what is going on?”
“They will, and there is nothing you can do about it, so chill out.”
Thus spoke the voice of reason. I continued to grumble inside my own head, as time seemed to stand still. I am not a moaner at all, but I knew that sleep deprivation was starting to tell. I knew once the holiday started, I would be my usual cheerful self, but for the present, was content to be the biggest grouch going.
We eventually boarded at around 4.00pm, and it was a delight to see that we had seats at the front of the economy class section, giving us extra leg room. We were in a row of three seats, and I saw that a young blonde haired woman already occupied the window seat. I gallantly let Steve have the outside aisle seat so that he could make use of the gap for even more leg room.
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(Pages 1-25 show above.)