FILTHY SKY-HOLE STORY:
Body & brain poisoned ragged from another wait in another airport.
Another sardine squeezed into a tin can thrown through the air in
the company of sneezers, coughers, farters & attitudes.
Wide-eyed youths talk ‘tech’ the whole flight as ‘grumbler-the-woman’
reluctantly vacates her seat one-more-time, releasing the desperate
to queue for a stinky little cubical at the front of the plane.
I can’t go in there. Can’t bare to breath abhorrent winds,
warmed-over perfumes, relief on exiting faces. I hold my breath
as each one passes fearful their rancid molecules will nest in me.
Then the cool kiss of Essex in a chill wind relief upon release.
The arduous depression of another flight over. Ticket wont open
the barrier at the short stay. Car park wants us forever.
We laugh, join forces, pool our resources, use what’s left of our
sense of humour, the magic button to talk to someone, anyone.
A dis-embodied voice, a metal good fairy to soothe us with sweet
London twang. Waving her oily wand over us, sets us free.
Safe passage, happy ending, escape from the filthy sky-hole.