We left it late leaving for the airport. I should say, I thought we left it late. Fifty eight minutes to my flight back to London Gatwick and we were just commencing the thirty minute drive. Fair traffic willing we might just make it. But I would still have to check-in (you can’t do it online at Norwegian which for a Scandinavian airline is unforgivable) and then I would have to go through security before passing through immigration since Britain is not in the Schengen zone.
“Don’t worry’, my partner who was driving said, “the clock is a bit fast”. He had caught my furtive looks at the car clock but could he read my anxious mind racing through Plan B? I would most likely be late for the flight and would have to buy a new ticket perhaps for tomorrow morning. Argh! Two hundred pounds sterling. Argh! “Don’t worry I will deliver you in time” he said, he the confident doctor about to perform his first delivery. Argh! He drove like crazy through the rain pounding out the wet roads. Argh! My memory promptly recalled driving lessons that cautioned driving slower in the rain. Argh! It would have been self-defeating to have brought this up.
Twenty-five minutes later, we kissed goodbye, and I ran through the airport doors. I rushed to the check-in machine and punched in my booking reference. “Your flight is about to close. Please go to the counter”. Thanks very much, can’t you see there’s a long queue there, you f*g moron. I hate begging but in the Sartrean world I found myself in, necessity preceded begging. I cast aside my magnificent pride and begged the young couple at the head of the queue to allow me to jump. My luck was in. I raced to the counter. My luck was in again. Turned out the flight had been (further) delayed. My check-in went through after which I checked out of Copenhagen.
An hour later I was still sitting pretty in a fifty-ton Boeing 737 38,000ft in the air reading Sartre’s Nausea and without a care. Charming.