My journey, as in times past, began at Golders Green Station. I arrived at the National Express stop with a good fifteen minutes to spare. As expected, a crowd had already begun to congregate. A woman anxiously paced back and forth as she tried to contact the helpline on her mobile. The phone was on loud speaker, so all and sundry could hear the automated message. Her intention was to get the 09:35 to Edinburgh, but by now it was one hour later.
Out of the corner of my eye, a middle aged lady perhaps in her sixties was ambushed by a playful retriever. It was quite amusing. As the woman was pint sized herself, the dog very nearly succeeded in pushing her to the ground. A few moments later, a scrawny 20 something lad appeared hauling an oblong case over his shoulder. A sticker in emphatic black characters announced "handle with care". Clearly, the young lad had a very loose understanding of the concept.
Golders Green would not be Golders Green without the appearance of some orthodox Jews. I would surmise a recently married couple, barely out of their teens, materialised. They carefully scanned the timetable.
My coach, the A5 to Luton, was scheduled for 10:45. 5 minutes later and with little fanfare, it arrived. The vehicle was filled to the rafters. The driver insisted that only pre-booked tickets would be accepted. Of the burgeoning community of prospective commuters, only myself and one other managed to board. The rest were left to await the next bus.
My last memory of of Golders entailed a throng gathering outside HSBC. Reverting to type, this poor excuse for a bank had probably run out of money or suffered a total computer meltdown. In any event the idea that this little branch represents the "World's local bank" is the grossest misrepresentation of facts since "the Neverending Story".
"I love it when a plan comes together". I found the first available seat and got a little shut eye. After a journey lasting little more than 40 minutes, I arrived at Luton Airport. Never one to sit on my laurels, I went to the Monarch desk almost immediately. No queues. No headache. The helpful attendant took possession of my luggage and I was on route to security.
By contrast, security evokes all that is quintessentially British. The discomfort of queuing, the pregnant pauses, removing every last metallic vestige are all fulfilled under the visage of the stiff upper lip. The queue itself was rather representative of our motorways. After a while it became convoluted and meandered in every direction. Matters were further complicated as demand outstripped supply. Would be fliers denuded of shoes, belts and money found themselves shy of trays to place them in. In spite of this potential minefield, I was soon on my way. As I looked around, I realised that one lady was sporting a false eye. I was curious as to whether this might present a problem. Esoteric and warped, but I guess that's how I'm wired up.
Alas, when it comes to variety Luton is found wanting. In fact it is almost as bland as the padded cells in a sanatorium. There are perhaps 10 retail outlets in total. I visited WH Smith's in the hope of procuring End Game by John Gray. My desire was kindled by the promise of £250,000 for anyone who can solve its cryptic riddles. After a 15 minute wait, a shop attendant informed me that they didn't have it in stock. My best laid plans had been foiled again.
In the current economic climate, we have evolved into creatures of necessity. The eateries like starbucks have no doubt generated a healthy profit margin. However, this has been offset by poor customer service. As I waited in (long) line for a cup of coffee, lesser mortals abandoned their place and opted for alternatives. I had hoped buying a mocha would be a simple, academic operation, but I was to be sorely disappointed. I paid for my order only to discover that someone else had taken it! Fortunately, after some consternation and deliberation, I was offered a fresh cup.
There was one shop that strangely seemed surplus to requirement. Victorias Secrets was completely empty. Perhaps the apparent allure of stick thin models and "edible" underwear is passez. Even the arcade games attracted more people as they looked to run down the clock.
Eventually, my stomach, by reason of its cries informed me that it was lunchtime. I went to the non-descript restaurant where there was a variety of Di Dis sandwiches. I paid a princely sum for a cheese and coleslaw combination.
With time still to spare, I decided to catch up on emails, facebook etc. An internet kiosk was purportedly operating adjacent to Starbucks. I went over to one of the workstations and lo and behold it swallowed up my money. In typical fashion, there was no one on hand to rectify the issue. In the absence of an information desk, I went to security who washed their hands of the matter. The computers, they argued, fell within the remit of a third party. I would have to contact them. It was evident that I would not be able to recoup my lost monies. But in the interim, I was in revanchist mood. I grabbed a scrap of paper and carefully marked it "Out of Order". I may haven fallen a foul, but I was adamant that no one else would be snared.
I was glad when Gate 22 finally opened. The wait had been too long and Luton airport is in great need of a retail therapists overhaul. As I made my way, I grabbed the complimentary paper which was laced with the usual tabloid smut and sensation. The sports section did not make much better reading. Tottenham had lost 4-1 at the weekend with Poccetino claiming that Spurs were unlucky. With too much fantasy and fiction, I soon jettisoned the paper.
Embarkation was seamless enough. In their infinite greed, Monarch airways (Kings of the Sky) had charged me for a limitless number of extas. When the dust settled, I was surprised not to be in Business class. For the time being I would content myself with seat 7C.
Unbeknownst to the flight crew, I was accompanied by an uninvited guest. In the days running up to my trip, I was struck down by a cold. No matter what I took, I could not shake it. It's a cliche, but we still don't have a cure to the common cold. Unfortunately, I have a jinx when it comes to such things. Every time I go abroad, I am afflicted by either a cold, a bad back or if I'm really unlucky a dose of both. In order to lighten the burden, I asked the attendant if I could have a cup of tea. But even this straightforward task proved beyond them. The boiler had broken and there were no hot beverages for the passengers. Instead, I closed my eyes and dreamed of warmer climates.
Out of the corner of my eye, a middle aged lady perhaps in her sixties was ambushed by a playful retriever. It was quite amusing. As the woman was pint sized herself, the dog very nearly succeeded in pushing her to the ground. A few moments later, a scrawny 20 something lad appeared hauling an oblong case over his shoulder. A sticker in emphatic black characters announced "handle with care". Clearly, the young lad had a very loose understanding of the concept.
Golders Green would not be Golders Green without the appearance of some orthodox Jews. I would surmise a recently married couple, barely out of their teens, materialised. They carefully scanned the timetable.
My coach, the A5 to Luton, was scheduled for 10:45. 5 minutes later and with little fanfare, it arrived. The vehicle was filled to the rafters. The driver insisted that only pre-booked tickets would be accepted. Of the burgeoning community of prospective commuters, only myself and one other managed to board. The rest were left to await the next bus.
My last memory of of Golders entailed a throng gathering outside HSBC. Reverting to type, this poor excuse for a bank had probably run out of money or suffered a total computer meltdown. In any event the idea that this little branch represents the "World's local bank" is the grossest misrepresentation of facts since "the Neverending Story".
"I love it when a plan comes together". I found the first available seat and got a little shut eye. After a journey lasting little more than 40 minutes, I arrived at Luton Airport. Never one to sit on my laurels, I went to the Monarch desk almost immediately. No queues. No headache. The helpful attendant took possession of my luggage and I was on route to security.
By contrast, security evokes all that is quintessentially British. The discomfort of queuing, the pregnant pauses, removing every last metallic vestige are all fulfilled under the visage of the stiff upper lip. The queue itself was rather representative of our motorways. After a while it became convoluted and meandered in every direction. Matters were further complicated as demand outstripped supply. Would be fliers denuded of shoes, belts and money found themselves shy of trays to place them in. In spite of this potential minefield, I was soon on my way. As I looked around, I realised that one lady was sporting a false eye. I was curious as to whether this might present a problem. Esoteric and warped, but I guess that's how I'm wired up.
Alas, when it comes to variety Luton is found wanting. In fact it is almost as bland as the padded cells in a sanatorium. There are perhaps 10 retail outlets in total. I visited WH Smith's in the hope of procuring End Game by John Gray. My desire was kindled by the promise of £250,000 for anyone who can solve its cryptic riddles. After a 15 minute wait, a shop attendant informed me that they didn't have it in stock. My best laid plans had been foiled again.
In the current economic climate, we have evolved into creatures of necessity. The eateries like starbucks have no doubt generated a healthy profit margin. However, this has been offset by poor customer service. As I waited in (long) line for a cup of coffee, lesser mortals abandoned their place and opted for alternatives. I had hoped buying a mocha would be a simple, academic operation, but I was to be sorely disappointed. I paid for my order only to discover that someone else had taken it! Fortunately, after some consternation and deliberation, I was offered a fresh cup.
There was one shop that strangely seemed surplus to requirement. Victorias Secrets was completely empty. Perhaps the apparent allure of stick thin models and "edible" underwear is passez. Even the arcade games attracted more people as they looked to run down the clock.
Eventually, my stomach, by reason of its cries informed me that it was lunchtime. I went to the non-descript restaurant where there was a variety of Di Dis sandwiches. I paid a princely sum for a cheese and coleslaw combination.
With time still to spare, I decided to catch up on emails, facebook etc. An internet kiosk was purportedly operating adjacent to Starbucks. I went over to one of the workstations and lo and behold it swallowed up my money. In typical fashion, there was no one on hand to rectify the issue. In the absence of an information desk, I went to security who washed their hands of the matter. The computers, they argued, fell within the remit of a third party. I would have to contact them. It was evident that I would not be able to recoup my lost monies. But in the interim, I was in revanchist mood. I grabbed a scrap of paper and carefully marked it "Out of Order". I may haven fallen a foul, but I was adamant that no one else would be snared.
I was glad when Gate 22 finally opened. The wait had been too long and Luton airport is in great need of a retail therapists overhaul. As I made my way, I grabbed the complimentary paper which was laced with the usual tabloid smut and sensation. The sports section did not make much better reading. Tottenham had lost 4-1 at the weekend with Poccetino claiming that Spurs were unlucky. With too much fantasy and fiction, I soon jettisoned the paper.
Embarkation was seamless enough. In their infinite greed, Monarch airways (Kings of the Sky) had charged me for a limitless number of extas. When the dust settled, I was surprised not to be in Business class. For the time being I would content myself with seat 7C.
Unbeknownst to the flight crew, I was accompanied by an uninvited guest. In the days running up to my trip, I was struck down by a cold. No matter what I took, I could not shake it. It's a cliche, but we still don't have a cure to the common cold. Unfortunately, I have a jinx when it comes to such things. Every time I go abroad, I am afflicted by either a cold, a bad back or if I'm really unlucky a dose of both. In order to lighten the burden, I asked the attendant if I could have a cup of tea. But even this straightforward task proved beyond them. The boiler had broken and there were no hot beverages for the passengers. Instead, I closed my eyes and dreamed of warmer climates.
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