When you book a holiday, you usually get very excited about the holiday itself but disregard the journey, regardless of how many times you have been forced to experience it. This seems to happen every time, and even when I find myself in the airport, I am usually still bursting with anticipation and optimism about the adventure ahead. This feeling is eventually a dilapidated shadow in the back of my mind; once I am in the queue for security, I already start to feel slightly sick and chronologically disorientated.
It also seems as if you never spend the perfect amount of time in the departure lounge - you are either forced to rush through, panicking about missing the flight or you end up spending hours walking around the expensive shops in circles, the superior-postured shop assistants glaring at you like hawks. Even if I did have the intention to buy anything, I doubt the saleswomen would believe my money is real. They snoop around you, suspicious of every movement towards the products, then ask "Can I help you, Madam?" as if they think you're too shy to face them first.
Now, at first, the plane
journey itself is not as tedious as the procedure leading up to it. But somehow, despite being able to survive an eight hour movie marathon or a whole day at an office job, your limbs are aching by the end of the flight. My theory is that the plane seats are specifically designed to create this effect so that you buy more snacks and drinks and pillows and crap you don't need when you arrive, to make yourself feel better.
I tend to take books and notebooks and dozens of forms of entertainment with me to keep myself occupied throughout the flight. I never actually use any of these things - for some reason, I just never find the energy to do so. Perhaps this is because airlines pump a drug into the air to make you want to buy their magazines instead. Perhaps I'm just becoming paranoid - I'm not surprised; who wouldn't?
