Wednesday 7 January 2015

Delay



‘This is captain Paul Cousins, you may have already noticed that something isn’t quite right this evening,’
I groaned a resigned groan. One of the perils of flying with BA is that you are more than likely to be delayed. 
‘Because of the mist that is around the Heathrow area,’ the captain continued, ‘we have been advised by air traffic control that we will not be able to take off for 45 minutes. As you can see we are in a queue of planes and so in the meantime to save on fuel we are turning the engines off.’ The pilot carried on talking but I zoned out, I was being killed softly by his words; so bloody British so bloody polite they bordered on being rude. 
I looked out of the window and tried to wish myself to be back at home. But sometimes no matter how much you want something, it doesn’t come true, no matter what those daft Facebook memes say.
I stared out of my porthole into the darkness of the West London night. But airports are never dark, and the lights shone brightly in the clear evening sky. I watched a plane in the distance, its lights growing brighter until it loomed out of the night sky and bounced down onto the tarmac. This was then repeated and repeated as planes dropped from the sky. What had the pilot said? Mist in the Heathrow area. What mist? I could see all things bright and beautifully for as far as my shortsighted eyes could see. There was no mist.  What my eyes couldn’t see was the queue of planes the pilot has spoken about. Because there was no queue, just an old aircraft hanger and a few derelict buildings. Something was odd, I must have had a faulty abacus because something didn’t add up.
I was just about to call the cabin staff when I thought I saw movement outside the plane. I looked again but couldn’t see what had caught my eye. I stared into the darkness looking for signs of life. I couldn’t see anything or anyone, but somehow I knew something or someone was there; don’t ask me why, don’t ask me how, just believe me, I knew. The stillness outside was contrasted with the beating in my chest.
An explosion rocked the plane, followed by a hissing and another quieter boom.

‘Please stay in your seats.’ This time it wasn’t the killing me softly voice of Paul Cousins but an angry, nervy voice. The cabin filled with smoke. This is mist they were talking about, I thought. People screamed, voices shouted, figures hurried passed me and back again. Within seconds the smoke began to ease and the cabin crew ushered us towards the over wing emergency exits where the slides had been inflated and readied for our use.

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