Scenario; 2.30 flight, Dublin to Amsterdam.

Firstly, as I live in Waterford I have to discover how to get to the Airport on time.

Flight is at 2.30.
To struggle through the various check-in formalities I need at least 1 ½ hours.
Another hour to get to the airport from Dublin
Therefore I have to be in Dublin at 12.00.
That is leave Waterford either by the 7.30 Red Eye Train
Or
The 8.30, toiletless, hernia inducing, bus.

I opt for the bus and do without either coffee or breakfast.
( I am now at the age when I like to give my bladder no chance to knock off points for bad behaviour)
I arrive at the airport at 12.30 and reach the sanctuary of the first toilet without mishap.

Next queue is for Check-in.
As I queue for this I recite the mantra
Ticket
Passport
Wallet
Patting (unobtrusively in case of airport muggers) the relevant pockets.(Panic Number 1)
Then you notice that everyone else in the queue is doing the exact same touchy feely dance.
As you get closer to the check-in girl the luggage panic (Number 2 )starts.
Is my hand luggage too heavy ? Too wide ? The wrong colour?
Will she let me take it on board?

She looks dispassionately at your passport and at the silly print-out you took from the computer and asks:
“Did you pack this luggage yourself ?”
This always takes me by surprise.
Who does she think I am?
Do I look like someone who would have a valet at home to pack for me?
But this morning my luck is in.
She doesn’t ask me to risk a dislocated shoulder by lifting my suitcase over my head to prove how light it is.
She allows me to check-in.
The first hurdle is over.
Then it is into the interminable slow shuffling queue to get through security.
Panic number three starts in.
Put everything metal into the pockets of the overcoat.
Biro, now would a biro have enough metal to set off the alarm?
Should I take off my shoes ? my belt ? my jacket?
Do I need my passport again or can I put it on the pocket of my coat?
Did I put anything life threatening into the bag?
Toothpicks ! Jesus maybe I could knock the captain out with a toothpick pressed against his jugular.
In the end I take off everything, shoes, belt, jacket.
Anything rather than set off the alarm and have all my fellow passengers backing away from me as I get searched.

So now I am through, in that wonderful area known as the departure area, where there are huge shops selling useless, non-metallic, rubbish, weird leprechaun caps too vulgar even to be worn by Americans, vast quantities of perfume at Brown Thomas prices and even vaster quantities of enormous Toblerones. (Now why would anyone want to carry one of those on holiday with them?)
So its off to gate number B 78.
This is of course only about 3 miles along a scenic passageway dotted with dead flat elevators. (They don’t like to throw them out when carrying people up stairs gets too much for them, so they lay them out to die, flat, in the airport)

So there you are, an hour before your flight time , at gate B 78.
Despite that there is plenty of places to sit everyone is standing queuing by the desk.

So Queuing panic number 4 starts.
If you don’t get on to the plane fairly niftily after they blow the whistle you will either have to
(a) Share a seat with the huge and smelly man still sitting by you.
(b) Sit over the wing and worry all the way about the strange pieces of wire sticking out brokenly from its back.
(c) Only get in when all the luggage racks are full and have your only bag confiscated for storage in the hold (from whence it will spend the next 12 years touring the airports of northern Europe, blissfully careless of your lack of both deodorant and clean underpant)
So you queue, foolishly, with the others.
After your hour of standing martyrdom the flight is called and the scrum to get on starts.
No matter how hard you have tried the majority of other passengers will have boarded before you and by the time you get on the plane they will be sitting, as if for ever, on all the best seats.
Before you board. Panic Number 5.
Where did you put the boarding card/passport without which you will not be let on board.

You board.
Then panic number 6 starts.
You are being pushed from behind and embarrassed from the front to get rid of your, case, and coat into several separated luggage racks.
Now where is your book, bought for the journey?
Where is your newspaper ditto?
And where are your reading glasses.
By the time you have located all these the cross looking woman at the end of your row has become incandescent and you know won’t let you out to go to the toilet unless shouted at.

The next panic (No.7) is trying to get the seat belt fastened.
Has the day come when, (Oh Shame!) when you will have to put up with the smirks of the hostess when you ask for an extension!

If you can subdue your fear of flying the rest of the flight goes quite well.
That is if you ignore the fact that you alone are too afraid to unglue your eyes from the “safety demonstration” because you were once publicly humiliated by an Air France hostess who stopped, in the middle of pretending to inflate her life jacket, to harangue you for not paying attention.

And of course that you also ignore the fact that the large man has settled in front of you and, as soon as he is seated, he puts his seat back into recline thereby jamming your knees into instant and immobile thrombosis against it.
In fact it can often be as long as an hour or two before panic number 8 sets in.(This depends on the duration of the voyage)
This is when you stop, and everyone , including the people sitting inside you, stand up, in some pain , twisted by the seat and reach across to retrieve their luggage from the rack several rows down.
This of course makes you want to do it too.
You all remain, immobile and in a bizarre body rictus for about 15 minutes until the hostesses have had their laugh and they open the door.
You disembark.
Than panic Number 9.
What is it I need for emigration (or is it immigration?)
Do I need my passport ? My boarding card ? Both ?
Why do I always pick the queue behind an obvious illegal immigrant who takes for ever to be taken away for interrogation?

The last panic (number 10) hardly deserves to be called a panic at all.
I mean when is the last time a customs official went through anyone’s bags ?
But then…., maybe this time……

Or again, maybe next time I’ll go by boat.