Heathrow 1999
Departure Lounge. We have a long wait. Lo-o-o-o-ng. It’s going on forever. Last plane out of Heathrow tonight is Qantas to Melbourne via Singapore. 10.30pm. Ours. And we fell in here about 10am. It’s already been a long day. I have no idea what time it is or even what day it is any more. I’ve done the Hard Crossword and the Difficult Sudoku and one of those Cryptic Nightmares that the Poms seem to specialise in. And I’ve had so many leaks in the last two hours that I’m on first name terms with Harold the cleaner guy who comes from Dorking and has a cousin in a lunatic asylum. I presume he means as a cleaner.
Herself comes back from the loos, says there was an American woman in there, four overweight rings on every finger, fluffing up her recently bleached curly hair that was as puffed out as big as her bum, expensive clothes, in an ALL WHITE linen pants-suit f’godsake, gold everything else, gold shoes, white and gold bag, twice as much of everything than she could possibly need. She’s going to be a mess when Cattle Class is finished with her. We see her come out and she goes straight into the First Class lounge. ‘That’d be right!’ we both mumble.
But at least this touch of socialist pique has us focussed. I get out my notepad and pen and start on a stocktake of our fellow traveller types. Herself leans over my shoulder, joins in the craic.
There’s the young female backpackers. They’re doing their first trip, 18-19 years young but trying to look well travelled, but they stick together in clutches of twos and fours like westward waggoners out amongst the redskins, all eyes and apprehension.
There’s the genuinely well-travelled type, has every piece of clothing and baggage worn into shape, not tidy, not untidy, just shaped by movement, by continually bumping into things, passing things.
Surprisingly you see the same people go by many times, as airports are either of urgency or waiting, of not enough time or too much time.
Ah, the occasional ragbag retro-hippie type is still alive and well, usually Anglo, has carefully manipulated free-range hair, trying too hard to be “cool”.
Then the delicate Asian women, exquisitely delicate, as fine boned as a bird, clipped and prepared just right.
Aussie women. You can pick the Aussie women from their skin tone, it’s tough looking, sun-belted, have more wrinkles for the same age, especially around the eyes. Herself states that you can pick them from the clothes they wear. (I have NO idea what this means but I write it down because I don’t want Herself to think I’m not a Sensitive New Age Guy even though I’m not and actually I’m just a bit proud that I’m not. I have no idea what that means either).
You can pick the Aussie blokes by the way they walk (I say). They have an open kind of stance, a bit brash, self confident, feel good about life, about themselves, yet have a naïve and innocent and trusting look, ready to be friendly. Herself nods. And they scratch their arse in public she adds.
An Indian kid, 5, jeans and t-shirt, clutching a Burger King fries box, shovelling in handfulls at a time, clearly the diamond of dad’s eye, can do no wrong. The kid hugs his departing grandad, doesn’t understand about going away, the father shakes the old man’s hand, a clutch of daughters are crying.
A Japenese guy in the seats opposite wakes up and puts his coat over his head and goes back to sleep. He’s been been there so long he looks like part of the furniture.
Bored young airport kid, some kind of Service logo on his jacket, waits with a wheelchair. It’s for a grandma, her daughters hovering, one with a carried baby that sleeps through rounds of hugs, kisses, more hugs, more kisses, urgent last words. The Service kid looks like “Come ON f’godsake! - my meal break is coming up!” They all straggle off towards the departure ramps, the waving continues out of sight.
In the middle distance I can see the American woman, scanning shop shelves, picks something up, flicks out a chain of 20 credit cards like it’s a magic trick. “Do you take any of these?” she must be asking. The suave guy at the counter doesn’t flinch. He’s seen it all. “I’m sure we do madam...”, is what he’d be saying.
Young English girl, smooth peaches-and-cream skin that doesn’t seem to go with her fine red hair. She’s no more than 16 or 17, white halter top, vibrant multi-coloured jumper tied carefully around her waist, long slender bone-tone skirt, clumpy backless wedge shoes, big bag over one shoulder. She has a snub nose, dark makeup eyes, hair held back with a black band, wears a gold necklace, one bracelet, two rings. There’s not a mark of life on her yet. Like pristine. But she has to make eye contact with men in passing, to be reassured she’s really attractive, just have to check to see if it’s all working.
Hard to mistake the saxophone case! Looks alien in this place of endless oblong luggage. One or two guitar cases meandering about. But you don’t see as many as you once did. A haversack is now the proper accessory, the standard pack for the Serious Mover. (How the blue blazes does a guitar get on as cabin baggage?!)
The cleaners are mostly middleaged Indian-Pakistani women. (Hard for we Downunders to use the English catch-all of “Asian”, which in Aus means Viet, Thai, Korean, et al).
A family of Mum, Dad, and Son. They look fairly well-heeled Middle-Eastern. The kid is about 8 and is entirely out of control, has a bad case of Hyper-Whatsit, more than just can’t sit still, he’s crashing about like a threshing machine on meth. Mum is elegant-ish but aloof, looks as though she detached herself from this unmanageable child years ago. Dad is continually hovering, shepherding, steering, but nothing works. The kid has found a luggage trolley and is determined to make it go up the down escalator and it’s only a matter of time and he’ll work out that the up escalator is the go. People are dodging around and there’s endless black looks at kid and Dad. Yep, he’s worked it out. The trolley is on the way up to the next level and the kid is standing at the bottom and looking pleased with the result and Dad is scampering up the escalator and godknows what’ll come next. Security is in the distance with a steely eye and the kid has now disappeared and Mum has made herself totally invisible. Please God do not put them on our plane.
A tall – has to be 6’-6” in the old money - West Indian girl, striking all in white, looks like she’d have to fold to get into a 747 Tourist Class seat.
A million people perambulate past, or sit around, and they’re all different. How many gene-parts must there be in the total human pool to give so many possible combinations?
Where are they going? - San Diego, LA, Cairo, Luxor, Beijing, Calgary, Bergen, Copenhagen, Vinius (no idea where that is), Tokyo, Istambul, Ohio, Osaka, Oslo, Manila, Tyah (that either), Amman, Athens, Stavanger, Gothenberg, KL, Singapore, Dubai, Addis Ababa, NY, Boston, Toronto, Abu Dhabi.
There’s a group of three in the cafeteria, trolleys around them like a barricade, playing cards!
Old Arab gentleman, very traditional in a long white dress, and Reeboks!
The seats area opposite has an ebb and flow, is empty-ish for a minute, then the next wave arrives. One bloke never moves, reading patiently under all the passing elbows, stirs, goes back to his copy of “Sophie's World”. He looks like he’s trying to not be part of it.
Herself says she’s going to do another round of the Duty Free, shuffles off, and the last of my focus shuffles off with her.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>