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Barcelona: Take-off

December 4, 2012

I gave it a fixed stare, not showing 1 ounce of weakness.

“I’m ready for ya, you big metal-y bastard…” I thought to myself.

Monday 19th March 2012.

Luton Airport.

The big metaly bastard in question, the Easyjet aeroplane that would soon be flying my gorgeous fiance and myself to Barcelona.

My first ever flight. My first ever trip abroad. (Even though I did go to the Isle of Wight when I was 4, and that’s overseas, isn’t it?!)

Passport checked, breakfast eaten, heart pounding.

“Are ya nervous?!”, Mel asked.

“Nah, I’m alright”, shrugged moi. I wasn’t giving anything away.

But Mel can read me like a book.

Fear’s and phobia’s are a weird thing. Well actually no, scrap that, because what’s weird about a fear of being 50,000 plus feet in the air, in a plane?!

Fear’s and phobia’s are actually a pain in the arse.

They restrict you, restrict people, make you feel uncomfortable, anxious, sick, and just craving, absolutely pining for the simpler things in life. (In this instance, why didn’t we book a week in Blackpool instead and enjoy a nice quiet drive up the M6!!)

But no; I was determind, absolutely 100% sure I was going to fly for the first time and have a fantastic few days away in Barcelona, with a visit to the Nou Camp to see Messi & co. thrown in for good measure.

Besides, I had never even flown before? I could absolutely love it once we were up there in that sky, looking down on the poor buggars enduring a Monday morning work, or after we crossed the channel, the poor buggars who were French.

We board. My heart beat’s a little faster as I step onto an aeroplane for the first ever time.

We sit. I’m on the aisle seat which suits me; don’t like feeling enclosed in.

Mel was to my right, a middle-aged bloke sat by the window.

“You alright?”, Mel kept asking, giving my leg a squeeze, excitement beaming across her face. Mel loves flying, Mel loves rollercoasters… Mel makes me look like a big girls blouse.

I’m sucking on a Polo mint in readyness for the ‘lift-off’, and all that pressure malarkey which kicks-in on the ascent.

We’re moving. The Airbus’ wheels trundling along to the runway.

We’re in position. I brace myself for what is about to come…

… heart pounding, palms sweating, heavier breathing…

… why didn’t we just have a UK caravan holidayyyyyyyy…..

The engine’s kick in, we’re hurtling down the runway.

The speed we’re going at takes my breath away, this is impressive. (Fucking super-sonic compared to the X2 Swadlincote – Burton bus I used to get every day)

And then… we’re in the air.

I steal a few glimpses out of the window, as my heart has a think about returning to a normal pulse rate instead of the ‘penalty shoot-out pulse’ rate it’s booming away at.

I find myself smiling; I’m on an aeroplane, my anxiety is dropping, I’m going on holiday… and it feel’s pretty cool?!

So far, so good…

Image – me, just after giving the ‘big metaly bastard’ a dirty look. Bring it on.



From → Barcelona

One Comment
  1. Flying? Nah don’t like it, never have, never will, still do though. Might kick it into touch and just take the boat from now on.

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