Mission transoprt granddad

11.00am, Glasgow airport. : check-in

The gigantic aviary loomed before us. As we lugged our suitcases towards the cage door, vast mechanical birds swooped above us to land gracefully outside their home. Within lay countless people, just like us weighed down with luggage and supplies and most wearing the same dread filled expressions with the exception of a few excitable children. Check-in was never a pleasant, stress free experience. Mum ferried us towards the correct queue and for the next half an hour we gradually eased forward towards the shining lit-up desk, Granddad complaining profusely that we had picked the wrong queue. After experiencing the derogatory process of waiting in line we arrived to find an all too smiley attendant ready to check us in. The bags were sent off on a journey of their own down a tunnel and we were sent through to departures. Miraculously, we made it through the metal detectors at the entrance to the departures lounge without them suspecting Granddad was a terrorist (although he did get some funny looks), and none of us had any lethal weapons such as nail files to hand over. Things were looking surprisingly good, everything was going okay and there was hope that I might actually enjoy this journey. I should have realised then that that would be too good to be true.

12.45, Departure lounge

 It should have been simple. We would all go to the toilet before we left for the departure gate, meet up outside the toilets after and the head off together. I feel the need to explain a little about my troublesome Granddad. He was at the time seventy-eight years old, but just a year before our trip he had a major operation, yet despite this he tends to present problems more expected of a toddler involving wandering off, talking to complete strangers and possessing no patience. Therefore it should have been no surprise that when myself and my mum and sister arrived back outside the toilets that granddad was no-where to be seen. Panic. The stretch of the glass walled corridor was absent of his white haired head and the sound of his clicking walking stick, and with only fifteen minutes to go! We set off in pursuit, with the sound of the ‘call for all passengers travelling to …’ announcement providing unnerving background music. We met granddad coming the other way – quite irritated that we had failed to follow the simple instructions. To argue was futile; we merely apologised and stepped back in line to await further instruction. “The last call for passengers travelling…” sounded ominously around the departure lounge again. THAT IS OUR FILGHT!

12.55, Departure gate

We were forced to do the “run that isn’t quite a run” The same kind people do they cross a road but do not wish to actually appear like they are running. I suppose it could have been called a trot, towards and through the departure gate, handing over our boarding passes in a flurry of paper. A quick glance outside the window and my heart missed a beat. It was colossal. A vast mass of metal dominating the view, and we would be on it any second now.

13.10, On board.

We had made it. The panic and sense of responsibility had been diminished, for now at least, everything was normal. My little sister had already pulled a book out of her bag and was burying herself in it, Mum was complaining about how stuck up the airhostesses were, and Granddad was being told off and asked too return to his seat after trying to teach two old American women how to do an Irish jig. We had begun our journey to Australia.

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