Like many of my posts, this one is written over a long period of time (deep time, it was started in the Mesozoic era - archaeology ed), in that it was started, possibly in August I think (in fact it was August 9th @07:51 according to the history mechanism of this tool - well I never ed), and has sat fulminating in the great server disk cloud in the sky until last Friday (25th November 2016 - otherwise how would you know which “last Friday”, it was?)
Given today, is the Sunday (27th), after Friday (25th), is, “last Friday”, still the 25th or is it the 18th, because if today was Saturday (26th) then Friday would be yesterday, but last Friday wouldn’t be yesterday but Friday the 18th, wouldn’t it? I get so very confused.
If you are new to this particular blog and indeed this post, I would strongly suggest that you use the very helpful search bar to look for the previous earlier parts of this Neverending Anguish In Aberdeen Post (™) or I could put the links to the previous posts - suggesting that you read them in order - otherwise you might get more lost-in-th-plot than is usual.
I strongly suggest you read them in this particular order:
Though, given my firmly founded, fully coherent, set of life principles, you can actually read it in any order you like, given that you are, finally, a fully fledged grown up (and if you are not, are your parents aware you are reading random twaddle on the web - nanny state ed)
So, after reading the above, and, my oh my, it make take some time, as these posts tend to wander and meander like the most serene of streams (streams of consciousness - Dr ed), you are allowed (as if I could stop you - ed) to continue with the travails of our non-international traveller as he attempts to meet Bridget in Aberdeen for a fun packed weekend, partly in Aberdeen and mostly in Inverness)
So here we go:
Terminal 5 (Five for those with number blindness)
As I sit in Heathrow Terminal 5 (again), this time waiting for a flight to Glasgow, en-route to East Kilbride, I know, I know, but someone has to go. It is where there is a large HMRC call centre, some of whose staff were using some software that apparently I helped write.
The last time I was here was for the the now infamous almost but not quite long weekend in Scotland.
After various adventures I had made it to Woking on the train from Sunny Alton (™) and had a very uneventful journey from Working to Terminal 5 on a bus (not exactly a rail replacement bus - but a bus that I bought a train ticket for, yes it confused me too - travel ed).
The bus dropped me outside of Terminal 5, when I say dropped, I mean it stopped and I dismounted. I had been riding on the roof to get an extra adrenaline rush, The driver’s face was a picture as I slid down off the roof. Luckily for me it was a bright clear day and so I had not been in need of the the wet weather gear.
Airport Love
So, you may not know this, but I love airports, perhaps it is because I was perpetually next to one or another during my childhood as I was, what appears to be called, “an RAF brat”, suffice to say that is not how I see myself, perhaps a little uncouth at times …
(have you seen that 1970’s school photo, the hair, the thinness, those glasses - dork would be more appropriate than brat - ed)
... so we were generally lived in married quarters next to an airbase …
(ok ok so not a commercial airport - but an airport nevertheless - with very exciting very noisy aircraft like Lightnings and Jaguars - context ed)
so I was used to aircraft noise.
The long loping funs down the runway and the, as late as was possible, dropping prone to the ground just before the plane touched down, was enormous fun. I was an adrenaline junkie one might presume, but it was understandable.
There were only 3 Black and White TV channels and for some reason that escapes me the thing that was on most of the time was the BBC Test Card, yes this is for real. It is something that has been lost since the explosion of channels with the communication revolutions of the past few decades.
Military Policemen
Given my runway escapades, I had many a run in with the RAF MPs. I have to say that the MPs were all ever so kind to me, loads of tea and as many biscuits as I could eat - and at that age I could eat packet after packet without any problem.
Sadly, nowadays just looking at the plainest of biscuit causes dietary conniptions (and yes I did need to look that one up as I put “caniptions” initially and the great speller in the cloud told me, via underlining in red, that that was not a real word - spelling bee ed).
The Trouble with Terminal 5 (Five - do numbers have an upper case?)
I quite like Terminal V….
(for some odd reason, and you know it doesn’t take much to “send me off on one”, this brings to mind Terminator V, )
...modern, roomy, well laid out, lots of natural light ….
(don’t get me started on buildings with little or no natural light - gnashing of teeth ed),
...easy to get to from Alton (by road when the M3 and M25 are in a “green is go” state or even as I have mentioned by rail and bus, it’s almost like it’s a transport hub of some kind, who would have thought it?
Security Theatre
The trouble with it, however, is that they have really gone to town on the efficiency of the Security Theatre (™) , which I may have mentioned in passing on a previous blog …
(I wonder if I could find it and put the link here - probably won’t bother - I mean hardly anyone reads the blog as it is - linking to another hardly read blog might or might not get a Click-Through Bonus)
...suffice to say it ended up with me spending some time having an unexpectedly thorough proctological examination, in what was initially a very pleasant quiet room. One does have to wonder what they expected to find (coprolites perhaps - archaeology ed), well they were terribly surprised to be dumped on by something significantly fresher and more malodorous, so they won’t be doing that to me in a hurry again.
I have to say that I was really quite pleased, as I am not a big fan of travelling places as part of a holiday. I tend to get very wound up (you are soooo right - Bridget ed) and my internal workings tend to get “bunged up” and it can take days after arrival at my holiday destination before I have relaxed enough to let nature take its course, so having the security personnel give me a free enema was the icing on the cake, errm if you get my drift.
Given the above, and with my special pass…
(in fact a letter, written in large font comic sans explaining why I won’t allow myself to be exposed to radiation and insist on being “patted down”.
It is so much easier handing them a letter after saying, “No, not on your watch”, to the Irradiation Archway of Doom (™) than trying to explain rationally why I won’t go through it - as I tend to lose it, and if I wanted another free enema I would rather do it at a time and place of my choosing. I always like to think of the letter as my Trump Card (™), which for some reason makes me smile. )
… I got through in record time. Sometimes it appears that a small investment in awkwardness can generate huge time savings, who would have known?
Exploring Terminal V (plane side if that is the right terminology)
Now, I like to get to places early, just in case my reliance on public transport fails, which for some unknown reason has yet to happen to me when heading for a plane …
(just don’t get me started on trains into Waterloo on the daily commute - transport ed)
...so I had a lot (how much is a lot - well maybe a few hours or so… ed), of time to hang around and wait. I would rather wait at the airport than at home, waiting to leave to get to the airport just in time to catch a plane, just exposes one to a very stressful journey, and stress is deleterious to health (well done, what an excellent word - English ed)
So after perusing the, “upper level”, which appears to be just one huge Security Theatre Wonderland (™) (STW) and discovering lots of interesting doorways that only special people can get through. I just wish I had the bottle to walk through them behind people who have access to see what there is to be discovered.
I did go behind the scenes at Stansted Airport a couple of years ago with the Border Force, but I am bound (well I would be hog-tied and punished if I did - Official Secrets ed) not to talk about it, but I can mention in general terms that it was weird, lots of areas marked off with partitions and pretending to be rooms, but with no ceiling apart from the terminal ceiling, as I said weird.
Moving Stairway to Heaven
So after walking from one end to the other of the STW to the other, I decided to go down the stairs to the ground floor.
Now I had been putting this off, because it always seems to be a big step, but, and luckily for me, they had put on lots of little steps in the form of an escalator (stairs for those unfit or infirm enough not to be able to physically walk up or down a set of stairs - ed).
Now I prefer a proper set of stairs, which are generally more solid, wider and these day much much quieter than the other options, and most importantly have no moving parts, as moving parts can snag your clothing and drag you into Under Escalator World (™) - but that is a whole other post (I shiver just thinking about that particular experience - ed).
But, and like many modern buildings, I could not find any stairs that weren’t behind signs that said, “For Emergency Use Only”, which put me off. I have previously tried to use stairs at an Airport (Gatwick - ed) and caused a very minor (well I thought it was minor, the armed policemen weren’t so dismissive of my actions - ed) incident.
Gatwick Aside
Explaining that you don’t like, lifts or Metal Boxes of Entrapment (™), as I prefer to call them, or for that matter escalators due to my unbridled fear of the Under Escalator World (™) and so much prefer to walk up/down staircases which for some reason gets me a lots of very strange looks and the need for a great deal of explaining and more weirdly keep having to explain the same thing to a lot of different people.
During my very long and repetitive Gatwick chat, when we got to the third time of them asking the same question and me giving the same answer, I suggested, in a helpful tone, that they simply watch the video of my previous explanation, assuming that the camera in the corner with the red light on was recording. For some reason they didn’t seem to be particularly amused and simply said again, “Let’s start at the beginning again shall we, Mr. Collins”, they are so very formal, it is one of the pleasures of dealing them as it is one of the few times in modern life that I am called Mister.
What I particularly liked in the quiet room (safely away from all the screaming children - ed), was that there was a very large mirror on one side, and when they left me on my own, “To get my story straight”, as one of the more helpful chaps suggested, I was able to clear up a few spots, well it wasn’t my mirror and I wouldn’t have to clean it.
The lighting was brilliant so I started to clean out my nose, strangely each time I started to get a small finger knuckle deep in my nostril, you know, to get to the difficult-to-get “meaty” bits, the door would open and I would be interrupted. Luckily I was able to wipe the offending finger on the mirror, apparently no-one seemed to notice. I did think that they knew what I was doing, but I had ensured that I was blocking the ever watchful blinking red camera with my torso, but I couldn't shake off that feeling of being watched.
After I finally managed to convince them that walking down a staircase was not a potential terrorist act, these very pleasant, though repetitive chaps at Gatwick said that they would keep an eye on me, which would appear to mean I am now on some kind of Watchlist.
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