Flying

It might not be as glamorous as it used to be but I still love the whole business of flying somewhere. I still, although only just, remember the glamorous days. I remember my mother worrying about what she would wear on the plane. I remember as a little boy being dressed up and brushed up for the occasion. Buried somewhere in the attic are the gifts we would be given as junior world travellers. I have a BOAC passport to log my trips and an atlas and a rather lovely bag to put it all in. I remember being invited into the cockpit and feeling very important and grown up and proud. I remember the glamour of arriving, walking down the steps of the aircraft, seeing my grandparents waving like film stars from the roof of the airport.

It really isn’t like that anymore. Now there are queues and yellow vested people barking instructions. Everyone is scruffy and grumpy, you don’t catch sight of the people meeting you until you’ve been treated like cattle again. But I still love it. Maybe the memories of a different time still colour my view. Perhaps that’s why I always feel a little guilty that I haven’t dressed up, perhaps that’s why I always have a little buzz of excitement. I still feel just a bit special at the airport and on the plane.

Then there’s the excitement of going somewhere or of returning home. Knowing that the people around you are feeling the same. I love that moment when the engine roars and you’re pushed back into your seat. I love landing and seeing somewhere new through the porthole. I love walking through the arrival doors and seeing the expectant faces of the people waiting. I love watching children run into their parents arms and dogs yapping excitedly when they see their human. I love it all.

So on Saturday, I won’t be thinking about the thirteen hours in a cramped seat or the queues at security or the wait at passport control. I’ll just be excited to be at the airport, to be going on a plane, to be heading home.

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