Autobiographical Writing

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Autobiographical Writing  

Kiran Ul-Haq 10/66

“ Are we there yet?” My sister called as we turned into Wycombe airport. With the amount of times she had repeated that phrase, even a parrot would have lost its voice.

 “Yes, we’re here.” My mum said.

“Whoopee!”

“Shut up!” I said.

“Knock it on the ‘ead,” my dad shouted, “the both of ya!”

We both instantly shut up.

       Later on, I watched the planes from the airport lounge’s window take off one by one as my dad checked in and received his pilot’s manual from the receptionist.

  It was the first time my dad was taking us flying. He wanted to show off his newly-acquired pilot’s licence. We were going on holiday to Le Touquet, a little town In France.

      I wasn’t impressed by these tiny, little aeroplanes and intertwining runways, like a miniature train set. They looked like ants compared to the jumbo jets we had flown in on past holidays.

     Well at least I don’t have to take those disgusting malaria tablets, which make me puke, I thought to myself.

     It must have been twenty minutes, but it felt like two hours just sitting there in the lounge. Its tiny walls surrounded me and the chairs were too big for my liking. It was grey in colour and smelt musty.

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  “Wow, look at the planes mummy!” insisted my sister.

Well at least she was occupied. I couldn’t stand another second of her saying ‘are we there yet, are we there yet’ every two minutes. Then finally I was saved from being bored to death and it was time to head out to the planes.

 “C’mon Kiran, c’mon Aneeka,” Mum called from behind the exit.

“We’re gonna ride on an aeroplane, we’re gonna ride on an aeroplane!” chanted my sister.

“Oh Brother.” I quietly mumbled to myself.

      I was wondering how I was going to survive the ...

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