by Alan Parks
I found somewhere to sit for a while and gather myself. Had I really changed that much that I couldn’t cope with something as simple as travelling back to the UK for a few days?
As I sat down I noticed something else; beards, lots of them. I’m not sure where this fashion for beards came from, but I’m not talking designer stubble, a neat goatee or even something manicured and preened. These beardy people have fully formed, tangled masses of hair on their chins. The men too. (That’s a joke by the way, don’t be offended.)
Somebody will be well-dressed, maybe wearing a smart shirt and a good pair of jeans, but from the chin upwards they look like they’ve been sleeping rough for months. All I could do was shake my head in disbelief.
I watched as children passed by me wearing full football kits, many including shin pads and socks pulled up to the knees - It’s 35 degrees for goodness sake! One family passed by me who were particularly on the large side. There was mum and dad, plus two boys wearing neon-yellow Chelsea away shirts. The youngest boy, probably about 10, was walking along whilst trying to force half a baguette into his mouth, I could see that the jumper tied around his waist was falling down towards his ankles, dragging his gigantic shorts with it. Rather than stop him eating, the mother instructed his older brother to help him pull the shorts back up. So from behind, the older boy, possibly 13, reached around and tried to pull the shorts up around the young boy’s waist. The boy mumbled something to his mum through a mouthful of his sandwich and she knelt down in front of him to tie his shoelaces. Throughout the whole scenario he just kept munching away on his roll, not once losing his focus. Madre Mia, get me out of here!
A few years ago when I saw Trunkies first appear on Dragon’s Den (TV programme on BBC 2 in which entrepreneurs pitch ideas to rich business people in the hope of getting an investment) I thought, “What a great idea!” These are child-sized cases with wheels and handles, so kids can be in charge of their own things. They should help parents, plus the kids can even use them as a seat when waiting. Judging by the number of these highly marketed and expensive products I saw in the airport, many parents agreed. However, it would seem not for long.
Far from seeing children managing their own luggage and being a help to Mum and Dad, the children I saw tended to use them either as a scooter, riding around on the back, weaving in and out of other passengers and generally being a nuisance, or using the strap and a lead, and pulling the Trunkie along like a dog. The problem with this seems to be that the children end up weaving all over the place, most of the time not watching the case behind them and causing people, mostly businessmen in a hurry, to leap out of the way. Bad, bad news for travellers, but very good news for the inventor who must be raking it in from sales.
The final phenomenon I noticed at the airport was the ‘pink people’. These people were the ones who would normally sport a skin colour of white or pasty white, but for this one week a year, they lie in the sun for 12 hours a day, drinking and cooking. Then, at the end of the week, it seems that they haven’t had enough time to get to the airport because they’re running through the terminal in their branded tracksuits trying not to miss their plane. More often than not there is one (usually) female following on behind, too inebriated to run and stumbling along with a bag of duty free alcohol for later. Hmmm, lovely! I was already missing The Olive Mill and my quiet life.
Once my gate number was called and I made my way through the passport check where the Spanish border guard on duty didn’t even bother looking up to check that I vaguely resembled the photograph in my passport. At the gate there was already a small queue forming which I joined.
As the minutes passed by, the queue behind me grew longer and longer whilst the wise ones were still seated, they all looked so relaxed. An announcement came over the loudspeaker. It was very fast, in English but with a Spanish accent, so I missed most of it, but I did hear the words ‘priority boarding’ and ‘special assistance’. A lady then went to the opposite side of the gate to where our queue was and started taking boarding passes and letting people on.
Let me make this clear, I have no problem with people getting on the plane first if they have paid for the privilege. I once used speedy boarding with easyJet, and the only place it got me first was onto the bus that went to the plane. Never again! Once the self-important priority boarders were on, next came passengers needing special assistance and parents with children. People were leaving the queue from behind me and joining the other one and getting on the plane first, having obviously fallen into one of the new categories.
At the front of our queue there seemed to be an issue with the passport of a lady in a wheelchair and nobody was moving. After about 15 minutes, a call went out to say that they would now be boarding everybody else. The cheapskates and able-bodied I guess, although it would be a bit non-PC to call that out.
A new wave of people from behind me moved over to the other queue. I hate that dilemma. Do you switch or stay where you are? I opted to stay, but it was the wrong move. The other queue was moving fast and by the time ours picked up I was one of the last on the plane. In the grand scheme of things this was actually irrelevant, as the budget airlines now insist you pay for a specific seat if you use online check-in, or you get what’s left when you check in at the desk. So if you already have your allocated seat, where’s the advantage in getting on first? They should start charging for priority disembarkation; that WOULD be a seller!
I was quite fortunate, as on this flight the middle seat was vacant, I was by the window, and a lady was in the aisle seat. It was quite a good job, otherwise I think I would have been driven mad. From the moment she got into her seat, she was texting, or Whatsapping or whatever, right up until a stewardess came and asked her to turn off the phone and put it away. During the flight, she plugged herself into all manner of hi-tech appliances, iPods and iPads. I think she may have been listening to music and watching a film at the same time.
Of course, during the flight, we were subjected to the hard sell that’s now become the norm. Hot food, lovingly prepared by the crew. HOT FOOD! I don’t even have room for my knees to fit behind the seat in front; where are they preparing these gourmet meals? Alcohol, of course, snacks, scratch cards (for charity), magazines, perfume and watches were just some of the things people were buying. Then, at the end, just to make sure you leave the plane with no money what-so-ever, there was a collection for the airline’s chosen charity. It probably spoke volumes about the airline’s priorities, that the collection came at the end, after everybody had bought their items from the trolley.
Despite myself, I actually enjoyed the flight; it was a clear day and only France was obscured by cloud – never mind. We arrived above the UK, flying over what I assumed was Southampton; there was a big marina anyway and we turned and flew along the coast. The sea was on the right-hand side and I could see piers, fairgrounds and I swear I could even see candy floss being eaten. Underneath us and all around was green. We flew over fields of pastureland, dotted with sheep, cricket pitches and village greens. For the first time in over five years, I had a few pangs of homesickness. I was gazing out of the window in my own little dream world.
As we approached landing, there started to be more concrete and buildings, and then full car parks and finally the airport, that feeling of homesickness had started to wear off.
By the time we landed, passengers were already retrieving their phones in anticipation of switching them on as soon as they were allowed. We taxied to our allotted gate and finally the seatbelt sign was switched off. There was a cacophony of sounds from the waiting phones - a high-pitched bum-bum-buum could be heard from all directions, followed swiftly by the synchronised tapping of fingers on keypads. That pang of homesickness had now evaporated entirely.
Everyone was on their feet, trying to get their bags from the over-head lockers, but of course nobody was moving. Then, all of a sudden, the front door opened and people shuffled towards the front. Unless you’re seated in the aisle seat it is
very difficult to make a break into the flow of people and hold them all up while you retrieve your own bag from the locker. I just sat and waited, huffing and puffing.
You may have gathered that these days, I’m not exactly a seasoned traveller. There was a time when I could manoeuvre my way through an airport, dodging in and out of people and make my way to the train station all in one easy move. The thing is, I seem to have slowed down. Everything around me was moving at 100 miles an hour, but I was still on Spanish time and pace. I followed the crowd to immigration and this is where I had my first encounter with the future.
I was ushered around to the right by a lady standing pointing people left and right; then I came to it – a digital, automated, passport scanner. I had never even heard of these, let alone seen one. I looked at the instructions on the pad for passports and I inserted mine as the picture showed; nothing happened. I turned my passport around and around; still nothing. I was shrugging my shoulders and gesturing at the machine. Eventually a member of staff came over, probably after noticing a queue building up behind me, and showed me how to use it. The machine recognised me (how does that happen?) and spat me out the other side. I took a deep breath and continued on my journey.
As the only thing I had to declare was that I was ready to return home, I walked through the green corridor, passed one last opportunity to buy some alcohol and then I was out. I had a quick scan to see if anyone had made a last minute decision to come and collect a rather startled traveller from the airport, but there was no-one.
I wandered through the airport towards the train station whilst being buffeted by people coming in the other direction. I looked up at the boards and found a train to Eastbourne, due in 20 minutes.
“Perfect,” I thought, “I should make that.”
Then I saw the queue. It snaked around two rows of people, and was moving extremely slowly. I resigned myself to having to wait, and hoped, if at all possible, that I would make it onto that train and avoid having to wait another 30 minutes. By the time I reached the front of the queue, there were four minutes until my train departed (well, was due to anyway). I bought my ticket, despite nearly coughing up a lung when asked to pay £15 for the journey from Gatwick to Eastbourne. I checked the board; Platform 7 was the furthest away and the train was due to leave in three minutes. I picked up my pink suitcase and ran for it. I think I hit a couple of people on the way; so if you were in Gatwick that day and got hit by a mad bloke running with a pink suitcase, I apologise, it was probably me.
Down the stairs two at a time, in and out of small children and I reached the platform just in time. There was no train. Had I missed it? A quick look up revealed the truth. It was late. Due in 9 minutes the information board gleefully announced.
I gathered myself and sheepishly went and sat down to wait. Right on time, 9 minutes late, the train arrived. It was Friday afternoon, at about 4pm, so what do you think it was like? It was full of hot, sweaty business people and I had to stand up. There was not a seat to be had, unless I wanted to climb over a lady in a wheelchair and a particularly angry looking Goth.
I stood all the way to Eastbourne.
Chapter 20
Home Again
On the train home, I once again had a few short-lived moments of homesickness, even though I was actually back. The green, green grass of home seemed to be having an effect on me. The train passed by my junior school and the road where I grew up, before pulling into the quaint little station at Eastbourne. I phoned Mum. “I’m here. I’m at the station.”
“Do you want me to come and get you? Are you OK?”
“I’m a bit shell-shocked. I think I’ll walk. I won’t be long.”
I started out of the station and the first thing I saw was two scruffy, tall men, falling all over the road, either drunk or high on drugs. That made me sad; it just isn’t something we see very much of where we live.
I headed into a Sainsbury’s supermarket to buy a drink, as I was gasping. It was actually pretty warm, there was a blue sky and the sun was shining; not exactly what I had expected. I wandered through the supermarket and found the drinks, and after refusing, point blank, to pay the prices being asked for a Coke, I settled on a bottle of water. I strolled home to Mum’s house and she opened the door before I was even through the gate. She must have had an inkling that I might be a bit of a wreck from the journey. I guess I must give off an air of being quite settled in my hermit-like existence.
I slumped onto the settee and relaxed for the first time in hours. My weekend schedule was a busy one, starting with a meal out with Mum, her partner and my brother Mike and his girlfriend Bea. They had travelled back to Eastbourne from Budapest where they now live, so it was the first time we had both been in Eastbourne for years.
The main reason for my first trip back in such a long time was to attend the party to celebrate the 60th wedding anniversary of my grandparents. The party was on the Saturday night and it was a good opportunity to catch up with all my relatives, as well as being reminded about how bad Mums can dance during the disco. I thought dad-dancing was supposed to be the most embarrassing! The party went off without a hitch and we were home by 11pm, just in time to see the second half of the England football match on TV.
The following morning was the day I had been looking forward to. As soon as I knew I was going to be in Eastbourne, I had got in touch with the man who used to run the football tournaments at the centre where I played weekly and found out there was going to be a tournament the weekend I was in town. I rallied the troops (well, not so much troops these days, as a bunch of old blokes who used to play a bit of football) and we all agreed to don our old football boots and get together for one last game. This was our chance to show some of the youngsters how it’s done and prove that experience is a far better weapon than youth. Well, that isn’t exactly how it worked out.
When I arrived, two of my team-mates were already there kicking a ball about in the sun. We said our ‘Hellos’ and dished out the T-shirts we were to wear. They were bright orange (the colour we used to wear) as a nod to our (glorious?) past.
As we were warming up, I could tell that things had changed. It was over five years since my feet had graced the hallowed (astro)turf of a football pitch and what little technique I used to have seemed to have dried up under the Spanish sun.
There is an old saying in football: form is temporary, but class is permanent. I can assure you this is a fallacy. Five years older and five years heavier, we must have been a sight to behold. We had become the team that everybody wanted to have in their group, the whipping boys. We contemplated each other with knowing looks; we could do this. We could give these youngsters a surprise or two.
In our first match we kicked off against a team of boys we didn’t recognise. I think we knew we were in trouble when one of the young players ran past us from the kick-off and none of us could keep up with him. After a minute or two we started to find our feet, passing the ball between ourselves and building up a bit of momentum, but it didn’t last long. They hit us with three quick goals; our shoulders dropped and we resigned ourselves to defeat. We had not expected too much, but we had hoped to give a decent account of ourselves.
After game one, I was sitting watching the other teams in the group play, when I noticed my boot falling apart. Five years in a box hadn’t kept my favourite football boots in the best nick and they had given up the ghost even before I had. I had to beg a pair of boots from one of my team-mates. They were a size too small, but at least I could walk in them.
By the time we finished our last game, we were shells of our former selves. I was limping along, blisters on my feet and the muscles in my legs burning from the exertion. I had given it everything I had, but sadly, that wasn’t all that much.
I got into Gary’s car, as he had offered to drive me to my auntie’s house following the football, and I noticed a multitude of missed calls and text messages on the phone. They were all from Lorna. I called her back.
“What�
�s happened? What’s wrong? Is it Lily?”
“No, don’t worry, Lily’s fine. It’s the car. I broke down in town and had to call out breakdown recovery. He gave me a jump start and I’m home now, but he said we need a new battery.”
Luckily, we’d been looking after Ricardo and Rita’s car while they were also in England, so I told Lorna to use their car to come and collect me on Monday and if she needed to go out. We could sort out Frank when I returned. I sighed with relief. I had been worried that something would happen to Lily while I was away, but hopefully, now this had happened with the car everything else would run smoothly. I only had one more day to go.
As the afternoon progressed the range of movement I had available in my legs became gradually less and less, until finally just walking was a struggle. I stood up to go to the car with my mum and my legs felt like they were weighted down with boulders.
My flight back was the following morning and Gary had offered me a lift. He was on a course in Crawley, so he had arranged to meet me at 6.45am. I had a terrible night’s sleep; the muscles in my legs kept tightening and cramp came and went. When I got up in the morning and staggered down the stairs I wasn’t sure I was going to make it to our meeting point, my legs were that stiff. I allowed 45 minutes for what should have been a 15 minute walk at most. It was uncomfortable to say the least. When Gary arrived I manoeuvred myself into the car and we looked at each other, I could tell he was feeling the same pain that I was.
We had a good chat, reminiscing about old times, arguing about football, and the journey to the airport flew by with very little in the way of traffic. There was one moment when Gary flew up the middle of a road, overtaking the slower traffic, when he did say to me, “Hold on, you might not like this”.