Checking out the check-in desk for Corfu…

What goes through my mind as I’m queuing up for my flight back to my second home…

Approaching the check-in desk for my flight to Corfu has always been a bit of a game to me. I never bother to check the screens for the desk number, instead I look for clues to guide me. Sometimes it’s a cluster of silly hats, usually of the cowboy variety, with pink feather-boas, sequins or flashing lights. The inevitable matching group t-shirts with inappropriate and highly contrived nicknames…Ranging from ‘Sex Bomb’ to ‘Sex Hopper.’Sex Hopper? – Really? Do people call her that? Did her parents drop her off in that?? Another tell-tale sign is the skin tone- girls, and regrettably guys, who have self-tanned to a darker tone than they could ever hope to achieve naturally, even after a month in the Kavos sun.

It’s usually their first holiday, and they’ve definitely come prepared, suitcases packed with hair straighteners, beauty supplies and home comforts like Apple Sours. I imagine a Kevin and Perry-esque scenario where a security guard opens a bag to find it packed with condoms. I hope that this is the case and that they haven’t just called ahead to book an STI check for when they get back, like my charming cousin and his friends. They’re taking last minute selfies, already in their beach outfits even though they won’t arrive at their hotel before 3am. They’re going to freeze on the plane, if the shots they do at the airport bar don’t keep them warm. This is Ryanair, we’ll be lucky if we can turn the AC off, let alone get bloody blankets. I usually keep my headphones in as I queue, even if I do miss out on gems like ‘What does E.U stand for?…Why aren’t we in EU??’ (overheard in Leeds). But it’s the chanting that I can’t handle.’Let’s go fucking mental,’ how about let’s wait until we get there, yeah?

I see the check-in girl’s tired face and decide that she’s hardly better off than the poor soul who will be cleaning up these guys’ vomit in the morning. I want to say something to her, tell her that I’m not going to Kavos, that I’m not like them, that I can feel her pain. And then she tells me that my bag is overweight, and I decide that she can go fuck herself. I transfer the two offending kilos into my hand luggage and smirk to myself that the joke is on her, because by the time I fly home I’ll have gained at least two kilos of pure feta cheese and souvlaki. But I suppose it’s only a matter of time before they start charging for that as well.

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