I entered the airport with nothing resembling a spring in my step or happy tune in my head. The half bracing, half whiffing-of-kerosene walk from the bus station to Stansted’s trampoline-shape passenger terminal provided nowhere near enough respite from the horror of the bus. ‘Plane-side’ was a Dante-esque RING OF HELL, with 6am stag parties in full swing, pushing soggy brains in big head swollen faces into every available sit-down place. The recycled air was saturated with foot odour, coffee breath and unrequited weariness. Happily, Pescara wasn’t high on the list of idiot destinations and although Ryanair had already blotted their copy book by pulling the flight forward from 7.30 to 7am (necessitating doubling back from London rather than scooting through north and east Hertfordshire on the National Express), the flight was fine, with concessions made to otherwise nervy flyers in the form of a special deal on 14 (FOURTEEN) scratch cards.
(I looked to try and verify this ridiculous offer online, but couldn’t get past the various websites dedicated to disliking and besmirching Ryanair’s err, “good” name).
Enjoying this immensely, I must say.
ReplyDeleteExcellent. Thank you, Abandoned.
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