Incoming!

Ignore this one if you’re easily offended, but I just wanted to ask: have you ever gone to the loo, settled in, readied yourself, made yourself comfortable, but then been interrupted big time and felt the urge to run for the hills?

A strange question I know, but I suffered that very scenario today. Let me start from the beginning:

Today, I was heading back to the UK from Portugal. I’m spending Christmas with my dad, so I had to be up early. That was easier said than done, I can tell you, since I’d suggested to Nigel that we have a quick pre-Christmas beer the night before.

I was going away, wasn’t I? Any excuse…

Well, as expected, we got a bit carried away. Nigel turned up with his son Jack (my Godson), and we enjoyed a sociable evening, but one that I should have left much earlier than I did. Therefore, at 6:30am the next morning, when my alarm went, I wasn’t feeling at my best. But you do what you need to do. I got up, showered, had a bit of breakfast, took out the rubbish, took a couple of photos of the awakening dawn, and headed up to the local train station.

Briefly, going back to the awakening dawn, I don’t get to see it often and this morning, it truly was stunning: a burning glow sneaking up over the horizon, breaking the night’s grip on Fuseta.

Well, that’s enough lyricism for one day, so after a short train journey and a five-minute trip in a taxi, I found myself at the airport with three hours to wait for my flight.

Personally, waiting around the airport doesn’t bother me. I’d much rather be early and sit around and relax, instead of stressing and maybe, horror of horrors, even missing my flight. My Australian friend doesn’t seem to agree. She messaged me:

‘Why are you there so early?’

‘So I don’t miss my flight.’

‘But three hours early?! You’re mad.’

‘Not really. There’s a train at 7:26am, 7:53am and also a 9:27am. The 9:27am is too late. If I go for the 7:53am and it doesn’t arrive (and that has been known), I’m in trouble. If I go for the 7:26am, I have two chances of making it to Faro before I panic…’

Self-justification is a wonderful thing.

‘No, you are mad.’

I’m beginning to think that, should my Australian friend and I ever travel together, there might be a problem. But this morning, since I was travelling on my own, I was happy. I’d arrived with plenty of time, and as a bonus, there was no queue for security. In addition, security didn’t pull me to one side either. Now that’s well unusual. Also, there was no queue at the vending machine, from which I like to buy a couple of bottles of water. And lastly, on top of this, miracle of miracles, there was literally no one at passport control. I wandered through the hall, rather startled, and approached the single, manned kiosk.

Of course, this is where things took a slight downward turn.

I told the immigration officer that I was a resident (‘sou um residente’) so that he didn’t stamp my password. He then said something to me in Portuguese. It sounded like:

‘Bronge?’

Eh? I had no idea what he was saying. I told him (in fluent Portuguese, because I’m getting very good at saying this), that I still didn’t speak much Portuguese, only a little unfortunately, and that I didn’t understand.

He looked at me like I was something on the bottom of his shoe and sneered:

‘Where to?’

So, I told him: Gatwick.

He passed me back my passport and resident’s card and motioned for me to pass. Twenty seconds later, it hit me. He’d said: ‘Para onde’.

Bloody hell, if he’d spoken slower, or enunciated his words better, or even written it down, I would have understood, and this is the whole problem for me. I actually know a fair amount of Portuguese now, but when people speak the language, it simply equates to nothing in my head. The sound is just so foreign. Words are missed, syllables slide together, letters are omitted. How I’m going to overcome this, I have no idea, but at least, next time I’m at the airport and someone says ‘bronge,’ I’ll know what they’re after.

Anyway, I suppose I’ve sort of digressed.

Once I was through passport control, I passed through Duty Free and into the departure lounge – the empty departure lounge.

I’d never seen it like this before. There were maybe six people in total sat at various tables. The staff in every store and restaurant were standing around. Listless they were. I really was bloody early.

I decided to get myself some food, since I had a long day ahead of me. I hit Subway for my normal choice: a six-inch herb and cheese, with tuna mayo, no cheese, no heating up, red onions, peppers and jalapenos. Bloody lovely, if a little expensive. It’s still a darn sight cheaper than most other food at the airport, though.

I found myself a table and sat down and ate my sub, messaging with my Australian friend as I did so, also checking a few things on my phone. Once sorted, I then headed off to the toilet to make myself comfortable prior to my flight.

I entered the Gents.

Inside, it was empty. No one stood at the basins, no one stood at the urinals, and all the stall doors were open. I headed to the end stall and looked inside. Mmmm… I decided to give that one a miss. Not pleasant at all. I chose another and all looked good.

I went in, locked the door, removed my coat, hung it on the hook, then took off my jacket. Yes, I had several layers on, imperative when luggage space is at a premium and I’m heading for the UK in winter. I’m a cheap bastard and refuse to pay for speedy boarding, seat allocation and a larger luggage quota, so now you know. Anyway, I placed my jacket on top of my bag, which I’d unceremoniously dumped on the floor, checking first, of course, that there were no dribble marks to stain my cherished rucksack. I then readied myself and sat down on the loo.

At this point, I was happy. I was relaxed. There was no rush. I could take my time. And then it happened…

A bloody great big cockroach came zooming in under the stall door, heading straight for my bag and jacket! And boy, was it big! And fast! Noooo! I didn’t have time to think. I awkwardly kicked out my foot to ward it off (not easy when your jeans and pants are down round your ankles) and managed to give it a good one, flicking the little bastard on to its back in the process. I looked at it thrashing its legs about, desperately trying to right itself. I knew that it wouldn’t be long before it did so. Therefore, before you could say ‘bloody hell, there’s a cockroach!’ I was up on my feet, sorting myself out, pulling my pants and jeans up, frantically trying to get to a point where I could get my bag and jacket off the floor. I simply knew that this monster would shortly be on the rampage once more.

I didn’t hang around. I was soon out of there, jacket and coat back on, bag over my shoulder, looking back to see if the monster was following me. Luckily, it was still thrashing around on its back.

I wandered back through the departure lounge, slightly shaken, and found myself a seat. I sat down, trying to forget my close encounter, and awaited the call to head to the appropriate gate.

Bloody hell, I didn’t feel so relaxed now.

C’est la vie when a monster cockroach interrupts you satisfying nature’s call.