9
It annoyed me that I was a little anxious about having no weed for a week. Tobacco was one of the last things I packed on the way out of the flat, though I don’t usually smoke ordinary cigarettes. I figured I’d miss a wee nicotine hit from the spliffs. The free bar should suffice all right to keep me evened out. I hit the road in the early hours, the streets were dead, and the air was cold. I had a mild sensation that I’d forgotten something, but the pleasant feeling of anticipation too. Arriving at the International Airport, I scanned my parking ticket and found a space pretty easily in the long stay. It was still chilly enough outside and I hugged my fleece to me as I hauled out my suitcase and locked up the car. It was a short walk to the terminal, and a few other passengers were pulling precariously stacked suitcase trolleys and dragging along tired children. I was glad not to be bothered with either. Once inside the building, any nerves disintegrated, and my body was ready to start to relax. By the time I got to the hotel pool I hoped I’d be positively comatose, one way or another.
I leafed out my passport and tickets and joined the queue. The flights for our airline were in two small lines and there weren’t many others in line at that time in the morning. As I neared the front of the queue, I had a last think through everything and got ready to check in. I looked around the huge check-in area. It was strange seeing it all so empty. Massive cardboard cut-outs of families recommended trips to here and there and drinks machines stood lined up and unused. It felt like I was somewhere too early, before it was open to the public. The tiled floor looked like it had just been cleaned, a sheen sparkled from it, most of it not yet trodden on.
Just then a man checking in at the desk in front lifted his hold luggage onto the scale, and I saw his face through the crowd for a moment. It was only for a split second. He looked familiar. He was fairly ordinary looking – average height, brown hair, maybe late forties, well dressed. His eye caught mine and I thought I saw a flicker of recognition from him before he straightened up and walked on towards passport control. I couldn’t place him, I couldn’t place the face, that hard set face.
“Are you moving up love?”
“Oh sorry,” I said, replying to an older woman in the queue who was gesturing to the gap in front of me. I had watched the man leave, disappearing through the double doors. I didn’t know why it had given me a funny feeling. I shrugged and soon I was at the desk myself, all checked in, and another wave of excitement washing through me.
On the way through Passport Control and then in the Duty Free area, I looked out for the man, but he had disappeared. Then I forgot all about him. There was an hour until boarding, and I kept up my little tradition. I only go away on a proper holiday once a year at the most, but I keep up this little ritual. First, I go to the airport shop for a paperback for the plane. Second – to the café for a full Ulster Fry. And third – to the bar (and yes it’s never too early when you’re going on holiday) – for a gin and tonic.
In no time I was seated on the plane, then shooting into the sky, and as I looked down, I willed my troubles to just float away. They seemed they might do – at least for a while, as I started my new Jo Nesbo, had a cup of tea, dozed and then repeated this several times. I love my wee country, but I was glad to get away for a while, get a bit of perspective, to take stock maybe. I think it’s a good enough place to live, but yeah, it’s pretty mental sometimes. These days we might as well just be called ‘The Backstop’ for all that anyone cares about us. I mean it is a pretty fucked up country in a lot of ways; we are a perplexing bunch. We’ve got Nationalists waving Palestinian flags at local Gaelic matches, like impassioned experts on the Middle East. We have Unionists dressing up like toy soldiers and marching about while getting tanked up on beer and Buckfast. Then we have the politicians
