WINDIES DIARY 2013 PART ONE

DAY 1

Up early and onto the train direct to Gatwick. The usual misgivings about leaving the house for so long unattended but what can you do? We are all in good shape and not too tired. Göran is a little apprehensive about the whole trip having never been so far from home before but I think that he is feeling good that Trish and I are experienced Caribbean visitors. We are quickly at Gatwick and the crowds are considerable but Virgin Atlantic are well organised and we have checked in on line so we are soon relaxing in departures. Travelling these days is so much easier than those in the past but to avoid even the smallest of inconveniences, it still needs planning like a military campaign, the equivalent  to the Siege Of Leningrad. It's with this in mind that Trish comes to the fore. This trip sees  yet another of her charity shop buys in action. To avoid the usual rummaging around to find face (and on occasions, arse) wipes, various electrical connections, pens and the usual travelling paraphernalia, she has bought a see through bag for a mere £1 and she is now the envy of many eyes as she expertly goes straight to the smallest item in demand. On this occasion girlie face wipes for Merlin as the heat of check in starts to show. We are on the way to Barbados. He's gonna be in trouble.

BARBADOS

The heat hits us like one of those wipes they give you at your local Indian after you have finished you meal. We are soon in the immigration queue where, as if in an episode of Doctor Who, time, already five hours in debit for us, slows down to a crawl. West Indian time has celebrity status of course and anyone who fails to pay homage to this celebrity is going to have a frustrating time. Each passenger is regarded as suspicious, a combination of Lord Lucan and Julian Assange. Every passport is scrutinised in detail as the restless but patient hoard shuffle forward in minute measures.

Eventually it is our turn, well almost, because an over eager family in front fail to wait, not once, but twice, to be beckoned forward to have their paperwork checked, and are summarily dismissed from the immigration officers presence with a curt wave of the arm. I am thinking these officials should be employed at every one of the UK immigration points. Potential immigrants would simply die of boredom and/or malnutrition while they wait to be processed. The mood is calm as the last of us are through to the Carousel where our bags, dizzy from repeated revolutions while we were processed, seem to have fallen from the track and wait for us to retrieve them.

Hotel, a shower and a few beers beckon.