The Stress of Travel these Days
The taxi arrived slightly early but the journey to York railway station was ‘calm’ itself.
I bought a copy of Esquire to read on the journey and a below-par cup of coffee from the AMT concession in the station concourse.
The Manchester Piccadilly station train was fine to begin with but by Leeds, the peace and quite of First Class was shattered by Standard Class thieves. ‘Thieves’, because they hadn’t paid to be there. The conductor couldn’t be bothered to do his job (as complicated as it was) and so I had to put up with noisy, loutish passengers all the way to Manchester Piccadilly.
Platform 13 is where the Manchester Airport leg of the journey was due to leave, according to the electronic signs. After a long, long walk and some half-whit in a station uniform inspecting my ticket, only to tell me exactly what was printed on the ticket, I arrived at platform 13.
I heard an announcement at 15:15, informing me that my train would now leave from platform 8. Marvellous! Hot, and bothered by British ineptitude (this would NEVER happen in Switzerland or Germany), I trudged all the way back to whence I had arrived 25 minutes earlier. The train, suffice it to say, left late. Well, what do you expect. This is England after all!
At Manchester Airport railway station, I walked to the bus for Terminal 3 and, less than half full, it left as I exited the terminal and walked towards the bus. Thanks a bunch, you idiot of a driver! Why do you think that they employ you? To drive a bus fast, throwing passengers about, as if to impress them? No, to get passengers from the station to T3, now that they have well and truly screwed up Manchester Airport!
There used to be a time when you could walk to Terminal 3, via the Sky Walk bridge and through Terminal 1 and onto your destination. All under cover and inside the building. But the geniuses at Manchester Airport have ‘improved’ the facilities there. Now, you have to undertake the challenge of finding your own way there (whatever you do, don’t be fooled by the signs directing you to T3, you’ll end up in the car park if you do!), via some external route (so you’ll get wind-swept and wet when it rains – something that Manchester is renowned for).
Once there, I checked in with BA (why does BA have the check-in desks the furthest from anywhere?) and then on to the people with a job for life in ‘Security’.
I’m a grey-haired, sad old 52 year-old, white, Anglo-Saxon male. Do I look like a terrorist (oh, dear, we cannot ‘profile’ people, that would be ‘racist’!). So, I go through the bad joke that is security and something sets off the alarm. Meanwhile, the laptop, bag, wallet (with passport, credit cards, boarding passes and cash – that I was told to place in a grey plastic tray) trundles by on the conveyor for all to see and take, should they wish.
I was asked to sit down away from the conveyors and was asked to take off my shoes and belt whilst some jobs-worth, went over me with a finer tooth-comb.
I went for my wallet and was told to put it down and sit on the chair.
I said, ‘No, my cash, cards, passport and boarding passes are in my wallet; I’m holding on to them.’
‘You are not allowed to take anything from the conveyor until I say so!’ came the twerp’s reply.
‘Well, I don’t care what you say, this wallet is staying with me and that’s that!’
He went all quiet, got on with the farce he enacts each day and then let me go.
Suitably steamed-up by the power-crazed members of the public in security uniforms, I walked to the BA Lounge where I was able to relax, have a cooling drink and unwind from Manchester Airport.
When my flight was called, I walked calmly and by now totally relaxed, to my gate to board the flight for Heathrow.
