We arrived at sunrise in a two-car convoy from the northern provinces. Laden with a multitude of luggage, we bore down on terminal two and yea there we wept when we saw the mighty snaking queue at British Airways. And so it was that fellow traveller smote fellow traveller and appendages were crushed under juggernaut trolleys. Yea verily it was the final call.

Well, you get the picture. Two hundred school-term discount seniors flying back to the UK after a debauched weekend in Amsterdam (“mayonnaise with chips! I ask you!!”). The disgruntled muttering was quite audible, but not loud enough to be taken seriously, as the BA staff shunted through late arrivals for flights leaving in 15 minutes.

BA should run a new marketing campaign: hey fluffy girl and stoner dude! Check in one hour before departure?! Yeah riiight! Party hearty, crash and burn! When you finally drag your ass off the floor and stagger into the airport, we’ll be there to push you to the front of the queue like you’re pimp royale. BA: doesn’t have to mean bugger all.

However, Mr B hadn’t forgotten his ninja queue-jump technique from living in Rome for three years. After carefully observing the atypical fluid dynamics of the single snake queue, he noticed the feed-in current petered out by the fourth counter. So we simply circumvented the whole shebang and walked straight up to the furthest desk. We’d carefully weighed each of our TEN pieces of luggage, so smiled smugly when the total came out at only two kilos over. Too bad it wasn’t Ryanair and their sneaky 15 kg limit. Revenge would have been sweet.

Next instalment: sick bags over Montego Bay (sorry)

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