I get back into Stanstead the other day and go to collect my bag. My hands are sore from carrying luggage all morning and my arms have tanned into a t-shirt shape on my body from the Spanish heat. I just want to get my bag and get home, but the train and bus journeys ahead of me fill me with apprehension. This day is going to get worse before it gets better and that’s just the price you have to pay for leaving the country on holiday. It kicks you out on the way out and kicks you on the way back in. So my semi-broken luggage bag comes round on the rotating bag transporter and I would just love to ride it for a lap to see what it felt like, but I resist the urge and drag my bag off and drop it to the floor. Time for a drink. Time for a snack. This day is going to get worse before it gets better and I think the overpriced vending machines are a small price to pay right now. The choices are standard in the machine and show no originality and Ema chooses the shortbread chocolate and the bar gets stuck in the machine. I don’t really want shortbread, but buying another seems to be the only way to get the other one free. I pump in another 70p and out comes the first bar and the second one gets stuck. I knew the day was going to get worse before it got better, but I had no idea how quickly it would happen.
I wrote my first ever confectionary-based complaint letter today. Welcome to middle-age Dan.
Dan
No comments:
Post a Comment