Quicklinks:
|
Great Writing - Home > Non-Fiction > Bloody V Bloody L Bloody M (Update)
| READING ROOM | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
|
| COMMUNITY | |||
|---|---|---|---|
|
| ABOUT GREAT WRITING | ||
|---|---|---|
|
| WORK AWAITING REVIEW |
|---|
|
| GW IS... |
|---|
|
Great Writing creative writing community is designed to prompt ideas
and provide inspiration and motivation within aspiring and amateur
authors. Whatever your topic; from love poetry to Doctor Who or Harry
Potter fan fiction, Great Writing's online writing group is where you
can make new friends and improve your creative writing. |
| WHO'S ONLINE |
|---|
| We have 1089 guests online and 3 members online |
Non-Fiction
| print friendly version | |
| Bloody V Bloody L Bloody M (Update) | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||
| 18 March 2007 | ||||||||
|
A very nice woman named Vanessa (I am going to start thinking of her as 'my Vanessa') from VLM read this article and explained why, specifically at London City, weight is such a problem. She addressed each of my points here, but sadly didn't critique my writing style. I'm going to assume that means she loved every word. Plus I'm going to get a wad stuffed into my bank account. So that's OK then!  I chomped hard at a handful of expensive cashews. Bloody budget bloody airlines! I took a swig of overpriced beer to wash them down. All a five pound voucher would buy me. One beer and a packet of cashews! What sort of compensation was that? Bloody budget bloody, bloody airlines! Weeks ago, I had booked the tickets. Bloody weeks ago. Well, not me personally, it had been Vikki in Operations. I couldn’t actually claim that it was my money. But it was me, stuck here, two hours, two bloody boring bloody expensive hours in the departure lounge. OK, an hour and a half, but that wasn’t the point. I should have guessed. The last time I had used them both the flight from London City Airport and from Manchester had been delayed by over an hour each. There had been three of us waiting, lurking around the check-in desk: Me, a Mancunian business man and a young Asian woman. I had tried to check in for the 15:50 flight to Manchester. It was 15:15 by the time I had got to the desk. “Could you come back in five minutes?” smiled the check-in woman. No explanation. No apology. Just come back later. So I did. “Sorry, we’re waiting for confirmation from the captain about the weight. Can you come back in five minutes?” The weight? I looked down. Ok, mine was an ample frame, but then again I was six feet two. I could carry it. I didn’t have any hold luggage. A knot of half a dozen passengers gathered by a pillar near the desk. Gradually the English reserve broke down. “What’s the delay, do you know?” “Something about the weight the plane can carry.” “They’ve probably overbooked.” “No, she said there were seats, just that they had too much weight.” “I booked weeks ago.” “Me too.” “Should have checked in on-line.” “No,” I interjected. “I tried that. It was broken. Wouldn’t let me.” Bloody budget web sites. It was a horrible web site, too. Difficult to navigate, even for an IT professional like me. Then when I entered my check-in details, the site told me internet check-in was not available. It could have told me earlier. Eventually three names were called out. Two passengers walked over, checked in, and disappeared up the escalators. One gave us a cheery “Good luck!” There was more than a touch of ‘I’m alright, Jack’ about it. The third person’s name was called out again. He should be here. If he wasn’t prepared to camp out at the check-in desk with the rest of us, he should lose his place. “Why those three?” I asked. “They’re doing it according to when you checked in,” replied the increasingly angry Mancunian. “That’s ridiculous. I booked my flight weeks ago.” “Me too. Bastards!” The third person breezed up to the desk. They waved him on. Eventually we were called over. It was 15:50. Of course we weren’t going to get the flight now, but still we wandered up, eager and hopeful: Me, the Mancunian and the Asian. “I’m sorry. The gate is now closed. If you go over to our ticket office they will book you on a later flight.” We trudged over to the other side of the concourse. “Could you fill these forms in, please? Just so we know why you’re being rebooked.” You should bloody know. It’s your bloody fault. But still, we filled out the forms, collected our pitiful five pound voucher and trudged back to the check-in. “Window or aisle?” smiled the check-in woman. “Aisle. And I want the hostess to smile like she means it, too.” Whoosh! Straight over her head. Then through the security gates. This time I was going to be first in the queue. Too right. Let them prise me out of the boarding queue this time. The gate flashed up next to our flight on the screens. Off we trudged to gate 3C. “Sorry sir, this is the 17:45 to Manchester. Yours is the 17:40. Why did you come to this gate? Yours will be called at gate 1.” “Because the screen said… Oh never mind.” So back we trudged. Gate 1 was duly called and we walked down the stairs towards the tarmac. As I stepped through, the automatic door suddenly closed (aren’t these things meant to have a magic eye?), striking me on the shoulder and nearly sending me flying (OK, I was about to fly, but you know what I mean). It was as if to say, “… off, and don’t come back!” Next time the vagaries of the railway may seem more appealing.
Only registered users can rate and write comments. Powered by AkoComment 2.0! |
||||||||
 Previous item
|
Next item
|
|---|