Spanish Diaries - The Race

We landed at 21.05 local time. My bus was due to leave at 21.45. Forty minutes from touch down to bus stop, was it possible? Sensibly, and unusually, I'd sat myself at the front of the plane and luckily an airbridge was being wheeled out; things were on my side. I felt like I was under starters orders, ready for the race of my life. I started well, overtaking the business class passengers on the first straight. But then, disaster! A steward was out on the course, flagging up a change of direction. Pointing me down the stairs and onto a bus. Congratulations, Gareth, you are first on the bus. You are the very people you usually mock. And we all know what first on the bus means, last off the bus. But before I go there, let me tell you about our little bus ride. I bet you are expecting me to say we went half way to Barcelona and back, aren't you? Well, after waiting for the other 87 passengers to board, and noting that I now had 28 minutes to go, we pulled off and proceeded to travel about forty-six metres.Forty-six bloody metres. Why? Why? Well, I'll tell you why. The gate we'd arrived at was Schengen and of course, coming from Britain, we had to go to non-Schengen. If it was possible, I hated those Brexit bastards even more right then. So, last off the bus, up the narrowest of staircases impossible to dodgy through the eighty-seven, and into Madrid airport. No queue at passport, good, at the very extreme end of the terminal, bad. Question, why do people stand still in travellators? They are not fucking fairground rides or sightseeing tours. Walk you lazy b stroke ds. I was like a slalom skier now, ducking in and out between the passengers, sometimes knocking them over but always keeping my balance. Baggage reclaim Cardiff belt 11. I looked around, I was at the last belt, belt ten, the next one was belt nine, bastards, belt eleven was a Harry Potter belt that you could only see if you had magic powers. My powers are many, but they aren't magical. I was stumped. Twenty minutes now. I had three options. I could roll into a ball and cry, yell where the fuck is belt eleven or look for clues. The best clue was the big sign saying belt 11-19 straight on. That'd do it, and there on belt eleven was my suitcase, ready and waiting. Well, bugger me, luck was on my side. The bus station was directly outside the terminal building. I hit a wall of heat and rolled my suitcase to a halt. My watch told me it was 21.31. Incredibly I still had 14 minutes to spare.