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Going to the Airport
by Rebecca Burke

Up at 5, the day you set off for warmer shores has arrived.
Not even cleaned teeth yet, the blasted taxi's outside.
Shutting door firmly, pre-occupied with turning the key.
As driver barks annoyingly "Morning! Off to the airport are we?"

Struggling with cases while he stands jovially to one side.
Taking the hint he struggles overdramatically, before finally commencing the ride.
Rubbing eyes wearily only feeling half alive.
As the radio kicks in to wake you with exhilarating Radio 5.

If this were a horse ride it would be a trot as opposed to a canter
Made even more drawn out by the driver's inane banter
Seemingly unaware of motorways the driver takes the scenic crawl
Oddly named villages only ever seen in "All Creatures Great and Small."

The driver hunched, lumbering inaudibly mumbling about the B41.
At last Gatwick signs, entering drop off area the journey finally done.
Driver then asks what terminal you want putting your mind into needless panic.
Thrusts return journey form at you, asking what flight no. his tone suddenly manic.

At last in airport, on endlessly moving walkway you go to the check-in zone.
Chaotic land of bedraggled travellers, what zone am I? You inwardly groan.
At least you're 3 hours early, more time for duty free as the travel agent said.
It's not open yet! Greeted by a lone empty chair it's the Night of the Living Dead.

After an eternity the self important check-in agent bustles in, creating much ado.
You wearily wonder how you ended up at the back of the ruddy queue.
Herded through scanners, security giving you the once over with a welcoming frown
Female guard of questionable sexuality enthusiastically patting you down

Inside the lounge, peering at the tiny tv screen, anxiously searching for your flight.
As seated rows of blank faces eye you wearily, not a smile in sight.
Worn looking cleaner shuffling in toilet, trolley laden with carrier bags
Eyeing middle-aged Harrods snobs smearing on rouge and clasping fashion mags

Gap year students sprawled on floors, matted dreads resting on oversized bags.
I browse duty free, people fawning over-excitedly at dull perfume and fags.
Suddenly frantic calls to board, people rushing like lunatics to gate.
After 20 mile walk you enter the lounge hoping desperately you're not too late.

No need to have rushed you are greeted by familiar scenes.
Haggard families bickering, ipods fought over by socially inept, spoilt teens.
Called up 5 seats at a time, then all remaining rows, charging forth like Pamplona bull run.
Weird space age corridor that takes you onboard - your plane hell has just begun.