English people are so patient aren’t we?

So it’s hot. It’s very hot. And where am I? Standing in a plastic tunnel waiting to board Yorkshire Airlines back to Leeds Bradford.

Typically I’d wait until everyone else had boarded before heading to the plane, as I don’t see the point in standing in a queue when there are seats to sit on! However, because I arrived at the gate just as it opened, and am still half asleep, I just carried on walking and am now close to the front of the queue.

At this point I check the time, to see we’re actually not scheduled to board for another 25 minutes. Erm, confused.com? Ah lovely, the inbound passengers are approaching, they haven’t emptied the plane yet, let alone cleaned it ready for the next flight. Hot recognition that this could be a long wait. In a hot tunnel. Surrounded by perhaps the most disillusioned group of women you’ll ever meet.

Lis, Linz and Lore’a (sure there could’ve been a T in there if/when she was christened?) want to get home (novel, wonder what they think the rest of us are here for?…) They share with each other (and most of the tunnel) that “the did this t’us in’t Malaga, med us wait for ages”. I’m not convinced the Spanish team are intentionally trying to roast us, but the Lasses seem to think so! This could get quite entertaining; my ears are now locked into their conversation with a Hislop-esque cheekiness in mind!

At the front of the queue (priority boarding) is a lady in a wheelchair and her two companions. Linz and Lis are chuntering away behind me, until Lore’a announces she’s going to throw said woman out of that wheelchair in a minute, just do she can sit down! After a few more such comments and some colourful language, the classic liner comes. “We’re too flippin patient us English aren’t we? We’re idiots!”
At this point, I’m unable to contain my laughter and have to disguise this as a cough (as you do), at which point the silent older couple in front think I’m choking on my haribo, and turn to see if I’m ok. The others around can see exactly what’s going on and a few wry smiles, wiggly eyebrows and winks come my way. Ah, we’re boarding, lovely 🙂

Lost on a plane

Not me, the pilot! This could be fun! He’s just announced ‘Lads & lasses, boys & girls, we’re just flying over the South coast and are now heading up towards London. From there, we’ll skirt round the west of Heathrow (makes sense…) and follow the A1 north (erm…) past Northampton (?), Birmingham (eh?) and Wakefield (where is he?) before descending onto Leeds’ northern runway bang on time” (could be a slight delay whilst the Captain’s satnav recalculates, me thinks). He continues “there’s some rum cloud in Leeds, and it’s about 12 degrees…” what? Oh lord I’m not ready for this “… but it’s not raining!” Joy! Welcome to the UK in the height if British summer; it’s not raining!

Right, got to switch off all electronic equipment for landing now, let’s hope the SatNav hasn’t brought us to Glasgow?!…

ttfn /Rxx

Ok so up front clarity: I was born and brought up in Constable country, Suffolk. I live in York now and think its one of the nicest places anyone could live. There.

So, I’m sitting in departures at Leeds Bradford International Airport and I’m chuckling.

Firstly, I don’t recognise it: it’s not just had a paint job but a complete redesign! Much better. So why have they done this? Let me describe LBIA and all may become clear.

Even in today’s global society, they still feel the need to include the word ‘International’ in the name. Prior to the upgrade, the airport was like a shed in a farmer’s field, on a windy hill overlooking Leeds to the south and Bradford to the west. The duty free naturally included alcohol and the bar took up 60% of the space in the departure lounge. WHSmith had an outlet but hardly a flagship store. To get to the planes, you walk out of Safestyle UK’s best conservatory doors (think these were on BOGOF from the pilot’s brother-in-law) and literally wander across the Tarmac to the bird. In warmer climes this is nothing significant but in typical west Yorkshire weather, it’s a long way from the Gatwick shuttle!

Then there are the passengers.

Sitting in my seat under the departures board, I have a prime view of pretty much everyone. But first to catch my eye is Nora. I’d say in her mid fourties, Nora is being pushed around in a courtesy wheelchair by another lass who seems a few years her junior. Now it’s not the chair which draws my attention to Nora, it’s the eloquent articulation of her disappointment at being delayed. With enough volume to ensure the captain of her pending plane could her hear from the Tarmac, Nora declares “ah fa fooks seak, the’ never flamin well go on’t raght time d’the ? Raght tek me back t’ut baar luv” (it’s 08:15) and her driver shuttles her away, to more mutters of “fa fooks seak”.

Then there’s Elvis. If anyone ever wonders if Elvis really is still alive, visit Leeds Bradford and you’re bound to find him. Generally he’ll be at the bar, surrounded by guys wearing matching attire, each with a designated role in the group. There’s the chap wearing an almanac – I’m guessing he’s timekeeper? Another is faffing with 8 pieces of paper, lists and looks generally confused – I’m guessing he’s the best man in (questionable) control of the itinerary. The rest are queuing for the bar and checking out the group of girls opposite.

The girls are loud, very loud! Periodic shrieks (much to annoyance of the couple across the way, who are trying to catch up on their sleep) and shouts of “Mica’s gonna be ratted by’t time w’get there, wohoooo!” They wear matching blue t-shirts adorned with the phrase “Lose women, Benidorm June 2012” and one (Mixa?) is wearing a glittery tutu.

Desperate to hide my chuckles and get some work done before I fly, I keep my head down, accrue $5k, raise a PO and book a supplier to deliver some Prince2 training in London for Q3.

*****

Ah we’re boarding, excellent, bang on time. So far, Ryanair, so good. Did I just use the words Ryanair and good in the same sentence? Blimey.

Ok, new airport layout, gate 5, where’s that? Previously, departures was so small, it was like walking across the living room to get to any gate. But now I can’t even see the runway? And I’m upstairs? Aha, signage, and whilst I’m disappointed it doesn’t read “t’ut gates” it’s clearly telling me to go that way. So, down the escalator, ok. Right, this brings me into the old departures – the living room – and gate 5 is where it used to be. But I now have to climb a staircase again? Ok, up I go, through where they tear your boarding card in half (with little care, making it illegible!) but then, guess what, another flight of stairs back down? All this in the space of 50feet? Welcome to Yorkshire! We then head out of the Safestyle conservatory doors onto a car par, oh hang on, no it’s a plane park. And ours obviously arrived last as it’s parked at the far end. Gutted. So in sub zero wind and driving rain, we walk half way down the runway to our bird and wait whilst they jump up & down on the metal stairs to make sure they’re safe *gulp*.

Luckily, I’m near the front of the queue so one of the first to board. I get on board and the attendant tells me to pick a seat. Hang on, when I checked in online, Ryanair gave me the option to pick my seat? I chose not to pay the extra £10 as I’m travelling alone as I do, but god help those who did, complete con!

As we board from the back of the plane, I pick seat 29F and watch as everyone else traipse by. And we have another hen party on board – I count 7 blondes, all in their mid twenties I’d say, wearing black boob tubes with “Nat’s Benidorm 2012” on the front and “Not another hen do!” on the back (is this for the benefit of the hens’ bank managers’ or the inhabitants of Benidorm? Who knows.)

Finally we take off, to shrieks from the Lose Women, no noise from Nat’s team (who still seem to be faffing with their hair) and whines from
Elvis that he needs a wee-wee… This could be an amusing 2.5 hours!

*****

I’d forgotten people clap when Ryanair flights land! And the fanfare they play over the tangy, haha!

Well it’s 28 degrees, glorious sunshine and tomorrow the European Grand Prix beckons! But first, an afternoon and evening with my awesome godmother, Suzy Q.

Hasta luego! /Rx

This is typical – I open up Vesper ready to blog, as something worth blogging about has just sprung to mind / happened. Only I get side-tracked by the tsunami of email flooding my inbox and, by the time I open WordPress, I can’t actually remember what I was going to blog about. Am I really getting like my Mother already?!

So I’m now staring inquisitively around my house, trying desperately to look for something to jog my memory and remind me what felt so important, funny or interesting a few moments ago. Does anyone else ever have such ‘senior moments’ at such a premature age, or is this just me?

OK, so I think it was this (it might not have been?) but if it wasn’t, then by the time I’ve written this, posted it, closed down Vesper, made a cup of tea to take to bed, jumped into my PJs and hopped into bed… I’ll remember what it actually was, and what was planned as an early night will end up another 2am finish – welcome to planet Boxy!

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Every week I have a session with my personal trainer. He’s called Ade and reminds me a lot of my brother; I’m not sure if that’s because there are few people I let boss me around (Simon was one, Ade is another) or because he’s one of few people who I randomly trust (ie he hasn’t earned it, I just find myself trusting him).

Anyway, Ade’s been training me for around three years now. At first, he wanted me to go for an hour a week, saying that’s what it’d take to get me fit again – laugh my backside off, yes I did! Anyway, as someone with a short attention span, I said I’d rather do short bursts more frequently, so I did two half-hour sessions a week. This means he knows me pretty well and is now as much a person to rant at and let off steam, as a trainer! As money got tight, it reduced to just one session, but I’ve kept going and still see Ade every week.

It’s worth pointing out here, that Ade would beg to differ – only last Friday night, whilst I was out being led astray drinking with Paulie Paul, I texted Ade with all best intentions of giving him plenty of notice that, incase I was slightly hungover at 9.45 on Saturday morning, it could be prudent to postpone our session until Monday. It didn’t occur to me that Ade would be at the same wedding as Paulie Paul the following day, so whilst Paulie Paul articulated Friday night’s drinking antics, Ade’s compassion for my apparent considerate deferral soon dried-up, and Monday’s session became more like torture than training – ouch.

At the time, I figured fair play, and put up with the pain, albeit with the appropriate amount of whining and winging throughout and requests for compromise on the number of reps on each exercise. (Is it just me, or does anyone else do this? He says “right give me 30“, I reply “we only did 20 last time?” He responds “and?” so I ask “can we compromise and I’ll do 25?” His final answer “ok let’s compromise, give me 30“. I can’t win. Yet I pay for this?)

Anyway, god knows what he did to me last Monday, but since Tuesday I’ve had the stiffest pain in my neck and shoulders. It’s now a week later and I’ve still not managed to get more than a few hours’ sleep without waking up in pain as I turn over and put a teeny weeny bit of strain on my neck.

Right, hangover or no hangover, this is Ade’s fault so he can put it right, right? Well. Ade is, by profession, something more than a personal trainer. Don’t ask me what, but it’s something to do with sports physio or rehab for disabled people, kids with learning difficulties and keeping old people mobile. I kind of think he knows what he’s on about, so when he offers to do a sports massage on my back instead of training me this week (training was never going to happen in my state), I said fine. It wasn’t until an hour before that I got worried.

I’m leaving the office and a colleague asks what I’m up to this evening. I tell her. Her face goes white. “Oh my god” she says, “take paracetamol, lots of it, it flipping kills.” OK, so I have a very low pain threshold. Help. This is going to hurt? I thought it was meant to make it better? Oh man, what have I let myself in for, further retribution for postponing last weekend’s session? Long overdue proof that I did indeed need 60 minutes each week rather than 30? Or just an opportunity for Ade to inflict further pain on a client and get paid for the privilege? I was dreading it.

*****

Well, I didn’t need to. It was fine. Whether it’ll have done any good or not remains to be seen, but psychologically I feel better (which is often half the battle).

As someone who likes to understand things (why does this do that, and what’s the name of this muscle, and how does it attach to that one… much like cars really!) I asked Ade to explain what he was doing as he did it. No idea what he was on about, and it could’ve been a load of waffle, but it sounded good and seemed to make sense! I can also see why I was warned it’d hurt – at times it did, but as he was telling me what he was doing / what to expect, it kind of over-rode the pain, if that makes sense?

The craziest thing was, whilst he was inflicting said pressure / pain on my shoulders, all I could do was giggle! For some reason, I couldn’t stop laughing! This could’ve been my body’s way of counteracting the pain, or I could’ve just been laughing at his trainers (that was the extent of my view during the process, as I stared through the hole in the massage table), who knows, but whenever it hurt I just starting laughing and saying “ouch” at the same time. Not sure what Ade made of this, but he just laughed back?!

So I’ve now swapped one kind of pain for another. The stiffness I’ve had all week is still there-ish, but is now joined by some delightful bruising (apparently this is normal, as he’s applied pressure to tissue – not sure the Andrex puppy experienced this side-effect though?) but within a few days, it should be much better. We’ll see.

I still can’t remember if that was what I wanted to blog about?…

ttfn /R xx