This was written yesterday essentially, but I didn’t have time to tidy it up or post it.
I am currently sitting at the Gold Coast airport, surveying with no shortage of intrigue, the plethora of interesting characters that lurk around airports in the early morning light.
By interesting characters, I mean the interesting characters that aren’t me.
This is all purely observational, and not an assassination of the individuals, in saying that, I will be assassinating them quite viciously.
The guy sitting in front of me is staring at his Mac.
First off, I’m not a Mac user, but I know that just staring at them for extended periods of time is not technically a constructive use for them.
I’m sure many Apple users would disagree and tell me that the pleasing aesthetics, and simple ergonomic design, lends itself very well to staring at them for prolonged time frames. And, I’m sure I’d agree that gazing at the casing is preferable to actually using one.
Mac guy, we’ll call him Max, is going through a perpetual cycle of looking vacant, sticking his hand over his mouth, and occasionally arching his eyebrows, then looking a bit lost. I am not, however, seeing much activity on the typing front from Max.
His hands do stray to the keyboard every now and again, I’m imagining that they are hovering with uncertainty – like a seagull over a quarter pounder. The seagull knows on a fundamental level that the quarter pounder is food, but it knows that there’s something not quite right, and anyway, seagulls have standards – goddammit.
Meanwhile, Max is back to cycling through his pre-programmed array of facial expressions.
Max, I’ve concluded, may be blogging or trying to write an article on airport entertainment; of which there is precious little.
The only entertainment I’ve encountered so far is how cranky the airport security guard got at me for holding my Chai Latte while trying to go through the departure gate. Perhaps he’d had a bad Chai Latte experience: his spouse maybe came to a bitter end at the hands of a poisoned or dark, enchanted, Chai Latte.
He was very thorough in making sure that I hadn’t filled my pants with weapons-grade plutonium. I don’t keep radioactive material in my pants, I keep it in my shoes, like any civilised person.
Much to my amusement, he waved his security wand over my offensive beverage; presumably to check for tiny soggy bombs, or to illustrate his general disapproval of transporting a hot drink past the departure gate.
There’s also a weird needle nosed character that looks like Mr Bean.
Thus far he hasn’t done anything hilarious like, for instance; spilled coffee on his lap, or proposed marriage to a dustbin because he lost his glasses. More’s the pity. He just looks a little meek at the moment. I will keep my eyes peeled for him going to the bathroom mid-flight, opening the wrong door, and comically being sucked out into the troposphere.
Breakfast on the flight consists of:
Pear and raspberry bread containing 21g of sugar.
Peach and mango yoghurt, in innocently unassuming plain white packaging, which has lord knows how much sugar. It’s probably a lot if they are too afraid to display that information.
And, a 23g toasted muesli bar, which has 7.1g of sugar.
With my current sugar reduced / free diet, if I consume all of those, I won’t need the plane to fly to Sydney.
I have very grudgingly eaten the pear and raspberry bread as I am starving. I hate to say it but a croissant and Nutella would have been healthier.
Every now and again I glance up at the screen.
Some celebrity chef or other is cooking in the snow. He has rather conveniently set up his table and utensils at the edge of what looks like a Norwegian forest. It must be part of the ‘cooking in insanely dramatic yet stunning locations that aren’t a traditional kitchen setting with snow-clad conifers absolutely everywhere’ series.
Beyond entertainment value, I fail to see the practicality of this.
Most people would be trying to survive the sub-zero conditions, or avoiding being viciously chewed by wolves if they were in that situation.
I don’t believe that anyone’s first survival instinct would be: construct a rustic table hewn from discarded lumber, somehow find some pots, pans, spoons and spatulas and beginning cooking a very elaborate meal.
All of the aforementioned items may be available if the last celebrity chef, and filming crew, were mauled by a ravenous bear with a penchant for pan seared salmon, tiny asparagus and potato dauphinoise.
I may be wrong. That may be what everyone would do instead of finding shelter, warmth, fresh water and a food source.
I think I’d better stop glancing at the screen, and writing as I’m now extremely certain that the full impact of the 12g of sugar has kicked in.
I’m off for a run up the aisles.