Mike
Like a glove!
- Joined
- Feb 5, 2009
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Setpember 20th, 2009 (cont.)
I boarded the plane safely and sat in my first class seat. I laid back and closed my eyes, but a hand touched my shoulder. I awoke from my 3 second sleep to find an air hostess, dressed up in the typical blue and white whatever they wear clothes, gazing at me.
“Drink, sir?” she calmly and most politely asked. I nodded. She handed me a tall glass of champagne.
‘Drink? A triple whiskey would do, love!’
She went off and return with a plate of chocolate digestives, but I turned them down. I wasn’t hungry; I was depressed, knowing that my footballing life had been ruined by some gang of dicks.
I woke up to the pilot’s call of ‘we will shortly be landing’. I gazed out the window down to a rainy France and a worse England. It reminded me of the few weeks or so I had spent in the sunshine of Portugal. I didn’t really know if I was glad to be home or not.
I checked my phone (that had been off for the past 4 or so days) and noticed the 6 text messages I had received. I looked at every single one, but none of them what I wanted or needed to see.
We landed. As soon as my body left the plane, I gave out a sigh of depression, frustration. I continued into the building, clambered into a taxi, and left for Wembley.
I pinched myself when I landed in Portugal, but I pinched myself harder now.
I boarded the plane safely and sat in my first class seat. I laid back and closed my eyes, but a hand touched my shoulder. I awoke from my 3 second sleep to find an air hostess, dressed up in the typical blue and white whatever they wear clothes, gazing at me.
“Drink, sir?” she calmly and most politely asked. I nodded. She handed me a tall glass of champagne.
‘Drink? A triple whiskey would do, love!’
She went off and return with a plate of chocolate digestives, but I turned them down. I wasn’t hungry; I was depressed, knowing that my footballing life had been ruined by some gang of dicks.
. . . . .
I woke up to the pilot’s call of ‘we will shortly be landing’. I gazed out the window down to a rainy France and a worse England. It reminded me of the few weeks or so I had spent in the sunshine of Portugal. I didn’t really know if I was glad to be home or not.
I checked my phone (that had been off for the past 4 or so days) and noticed the 6 text messages I had received. I looked at every single one, but none of them what I wanted or needed to see.
. . . . .
We landed. As soon as my body left the plane, I gave out a sigh of depression, frustration. I continued into the building, clambered into a taxi, and left for Wembley.
I pinched myself when I landed in Portugal, but I pinched myself harder now.