The flight time from Málaga to Manchester is normally 2 and a half hours. A boring journey. The monotony broken up by the drinks and meal service. The joys of being a frequent flyer. Except this trip home was a little bit more exciting. Firstly, Monica was with me. Secondly, we were travelling into a force ten gale.
The landing was a bit bumpy due to the wind. It must have blown us off course as we landed at East Midlands Airport! What a horrible trip home. Stuck on the plane for 45 minutes until they could find a free stairway to rescue us. Nearly blown off the steps coming out of the plane. About 1000 people crammed in the baggage re-claim section waiting for bags. They couldn't open the plane cargo doors due to the wind! No food no drink no news!
Finally got our bags an hour later. Then headed for the scrum to the departure lounge for info on a transfer to Manchester. Monarch don't have an office at East Midlands so they abandoned us to Servisair. They didn't have a clue. Queues at the bar and food courts were miles long. The Boots, Spar et al had sold out of sandwiches. All we were told was listen to announcements on the PA system.
Stood in Departure hall awaiting news. Chinese whispers started by passengers. "A Monarch coach has been and gone". "Another one has just gone!" This was then confirmed by Servisair. "But there was no bloody announcement!!!!". Very nice lady tells me that a coach has arrived for us (us being Monica, myself and an Iraqi doctor that tagged on to us). Cart all bags out front in the force 10 gale. Coach driver won't let us on. "My Travel flight only". Cart all bags back into departure hall. Find nice lady and explain. "Come with me!". Cart all bags out front in force 10 gale. Coach driver won't let us on (deja vu). Nice lady has big argument with coach driver. Coach driver goes off to find supervisor. We cling to our bags (not due to wind as we are shielded by a rabid mob of displaced passengers who are trying to get passed us on to the coach) and wait.
Coach driver returns with a smug "told you so" smile slapped on his face. Cart all bags back into departure hall. Nice lady as long since disappeared. I spy her in the distance attempting to slip away into the night. I give chase and catch her. Poor girl, she is doing her best. I can't blast nice lady. If it were a bloke he would have had it both barrels!
Told to see "Ashley", her supervisor for more info. I rapidly suspect that this is the bleached blonde camp guy with a phone glued to his hear as he examines his finger nails. I am right. Poor lad, he is doing his best. I can't blast the gay guy. If he were a heterosexual bloke, he would have had it both barrels!
More mature lady marches over to us lost souls. Salvation is here. "Your coach is the blue one over the road at the back". Cart all bags out front (force 10 gale as subsided as its over an hour since we last braved the elements). Smug coach driver is still there arguing with someone. We are intercepted by My Travel Rep & Servisair Rep. "Manchester?". "Yes" we cry. "It's that coach", pointing to smug coach driver. "No it isn't, its that one" shrieks Servisair rep pointing to a white coach opposite. "I was told it was a blue coach". Both reps look confused so stick to programmed responses. The lost souls look forlornly at me (I don't remember being made leader. I'm sure its the doctor who is the leader in lost! Oh, he is an Iraqi. Whatever). Fortified by the can of Stella I had drunk (Supplied by grateful Iraqi Dr) I barged past the robotic reps, ignored the smug coach driver and made a run for the Blue coach.
Blue coach driver asks "Were are you from?". Play it cool, just get on the coach. "Manchester". "But which flight?". Just before I could answer, the skies clear, praise the lord! He has seen the light. "Get yer bags on and get in".
It turns out that we got on the "Thompson" coach but what the hell. We finally arrived at Manchester airport at 10:00pm. Our ordeal almost over. Except my Dad was picking us up at Terminal 1 and Thompson fly to Terminal 2. 3 phone calls to clueless dad and he finally finds his way to T2 arrivals. How many signposts do you need Dad! Monica, welcome to Manchester!
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