So this travel blog is being written on my phone this year as some little shit helped themselves to my laptop whilst we were in a busy train station waiting for our train. My own fault as I stopped looking at our bags for, Ooo at least 40 seconds, which was long enough for some fucker to piss me right off.
When I realised what had happened the adrenaline rushed through my body in much the same way that I imagine amphetamines do when you jack up. Talk about heart plummeting – the blood rushed from my lips, I went cold then hot then icy fury overcame me. Then angry tears, hatred of all Indians, self pity, more anger and the need to hurt someone. More tears and self flagellation – “stupid, stupid, bloody, bloody stupid”, “How many times have you been to India?” and “You should know better”, and lots more of the same.
Then later came hindsight. I fucking hate hindsight, all smug and conceited… “If you’d have done that”, or “If this was done”.. Yea yea I know all that, fuck off and let me wallow.
It took about 48 hours for anger at myself and anger at all Indians to finally dissipate. Hopefully the money the asshole got for my laptop was used to send a sick relative to hospital. Yea right! Thieves here are same as the thieves in the rest of the world. The money will be spent on drugs and alcohol. I hope they got hit by a train running off with my bag.
Those of you who know me well will understand my furious response and hence feel great compassion for my patient and solid husband who didn’t chastise me once and even asked if I wanted him to shut up when trying to offer me verbal succour. I love him.
When you finally arrive in terminal 4 there’s only a couple of people left on the national express coach off to exotic places which is confirmed as you enter the terminal as there are very few white people and even fewer Brit’s. Everyone’s right proper foreign off to right proper foreign places! Moscow, Ahmedabad, Delhi, Shanghai, Nairobi, Bahrain, Kuala Lumpur, Ashgabat, Tashkent, Hanoi and many more. Names that mean adventure and excite. Not a loud, fat, drunk, stag or hen do going to Magaluf in sight! (Yeah OK so I shouldn’t tar them all with the same brush I know they’re not all fat)!
Shopping in terminal 4 is great! I mean the selection is just fab… Boss, Bulgari, Burberry, Cartier, Kath Kidston, Caviar House and Prunier, Gucci’s, Hamleys and Harrods, Mulberry and Versace. I mean, just right up my street. Nothing I like better than a tad of vacuous shopping (Def:Vacuous..Suggests the emptiness of a vacuum and especially the lack of intelligence or significance: having or showing a lack of intelligence or serious thought : lacking meaning, importance, or substance). Who shops in these places ?? Oh yea vacuous dicks!!
However there is a Boots and a W.H.Smith’s so I can just about afford to shop for boiled sweets for on the plane and an exceptionally priced bottle of water if I fancy. (This time though I took sweets with me and my own empty bottle and had pret a manger fill it up!) 😈
The plane was rammed, Indians do not travel lightly. Not room for a sparrows fart in the over head lockers, lots of spoilt, petulant behaviour from the middle class Indians living in their bubble of ‘I’m special’. The crew are obviously used to dealing with people who think they’re to be treated as special and finally with a firm tone explain that there is no room in the locker above ladies seat so bag will have to go elsewhere.
I have my tray of ‘food’ watch a few episodes of friends pop a Valium and wake up in time for breakfast.