Mike
Like a glove!
- Joined
- Feb 5, 2009
- Messages
- 8,121
- Reaction score
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- Points
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August 31st, 2009 (cont.)
The excitement is building. Very shortly I will be boarding a plane to my destination, and home for the next 12 months. I’m getting all the usual feelings – tension, nerves, butterflies.
‘This better be worth the £495!’
Money – it’s a wonderful thing. It comes and goes, but that transition happens way too quickly. That took a huge chunk out of my account: I only had £33.92 left after I paid for this course. It made me feel so much better about myself though, you know, actually doing something worthwhile.
Time for sleep, if I can get some. Ciao for now.
September 1st, 2009
‘******* six o’ clock!’
My thoughts as the alarm sounded. I didn’t know there was such a time in the morning!
My flight is in three hours – I’ve packed, I’ve showered, I’ve brushed myself down.. all that needs doing is getting my **** to the airport. A taxi is coming for me, and he should be here any minute. Scoff the final slice of my healthy cheese on toast breakfast and wait in the hotel lobby.
As I sat down in the back seat of the taxi, the driver politely asked if I needed a drink. I declined; I had my own stuff.
The driver was a tall, dark, handsome lad; in his thirties, curly black hair and a body-builder frame. He entered the hotel with such enthusiasm and excitement, it almost looked as if he was on his way abroad.
Inserting my earphones into my lugs, I waved goodbye to those who were watching me leave. I thanked each and every one of the lads and coaches and physios just before I jumped into the cab; I wouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t for the majority of them.
We had arrived at the airport just after 30 minutes on the M4, and as I stepped out of the taxi, I thanked the driver and bumped into a man in a suit. He looked quite important, so I apologised. Turns out it was Michael Turner of Sunderland; the team were going to Spain for a friendly.
‘I had a brief encounter with a professional footballer.. yes!’
Heathrow was heaving. There wasn’t enough room to fart, let alone breathe. There was a team of medics surrounding a young child who had fallen to the left.
I turned the blasting of my music off. I tried to plan my route through the masses of bodies.
Never been to an airport before. Seen plenty of footage on the news and pictures, but never actually been to one. It was a difficult task to navigate myself, but I’d made it in the end. I sat down and sipped a coffee. It tasted good on my parched morning mouth.
A large man to my left. An Indian to my right. An Indian woman to my right – blabbing to herself what seemed to be about cooking and children, funnily enough.
‘It could be worse..’
Could it?!
The excitement is building. Very shortly I will be boarding a plane to my destination, and home for the next 12 months. I’m getting all the usual feelings – tension, nerves, butterflies.
‘This better be worth the £495!’
Money – it’s a wonderful thing. It comes and goes, but that transition happens way too quickly. That took a huge chunk out of my account: I only had £33.92 left after I paid for this course. It made me feel so much better about myself though, you know, actually doing something worthwhile.
Time for sleep, if I can get some. Ciao for now.
September 1st, 2009
‘******* six o’ clock!’
My thoughts as the alarm sounded. I didn’t know there was such a time in the morning!
My flight is in three hours – I’ve packed, I’ve showered, I’ve brushed myself down.. all that needs doing is getting my **** to the airport. A taxi is coming for me, and he should be here any minute. Scoff the final slice of my healthy cheese on toast breakfast and wait in the hotel lobby.
. . . . .
As I sat down in the back seat of the taxi, the driver politely asked if I needed a drink. I declined; I had my own stuff.
The driver was a tall, dark, handsome lad; in his thirties, curly black hair and a body-builder frame. He entered the hotel with such enthusiasm and excitement, it almost looked as if he was on his way abroad.
Inserting my earphones into my lugs, I waved goodbye to those who were watching me leave. I thanked each and every one of the lads and coaches and physios just before I jumped into the cab; I wouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t for the majority of them.
. . . . .
We had arrived at the airport just after 30 minutes on the M4, and as I stepped out of the taxi, I thanked the driver and bumped into a man in a suit. He looked quite important, so I apologised. Turns out it was Michael Turner of Sunderland; the team were going to Spain for a friendly.
‘I had a brief encounter with a professional footballer.. yes!’
Heathrow was heaving. There wasn’t enough room to fart, let alone breathe. There was a team of medics surrounding a young child who had fallen to the left.
I turned the blasting of my music off. I tried to plan my route through the masses of bodies.
Never been to an airport before. Seen plenty of footage on the news and pictures, but never actually been to one. It was a difficult task to navigate myself, but I’d made it in the end. I sat down and sipped a coffee. It tasted good on my parched morning mouth.
. . . . .
A large man to my left. An Indian to my right. An Indian woman to my right – blabbing to herself what seemed to be about cooking and children, funnily enough.
‘It could be worse..’
Could it?!
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, but just one question - where are the sheep? 