Me. You. Coffee.

The bus stops once more. Another hotel and another set of suitcases.

A sunburnt, Violent Green T-shirt and a Frizzy-haired turquoise tracksuit stagger onto the coach. They look like early-90s ravers. Trapped in a perpetual Wide-a-wake club.

They look absolutely fucked. 

Rum and Coke or rum, and coke?

In the 60 seconds they’ve been sat down, 2 litres of good ol’ H20 has been noisily swigged. If you squint your ears you can hear it sloshing around. They are vacuous. I need to escape this world.

Noise cancelling earbuds. The sweet sensation of the pressure being regulated in my ear canals deadens the white noise coming from seats 5A and 5B.

Jack White bangs out Lazaretto to the scene. I watch the rest from my peripheral. 

Volume up.

The Frizzy hair can’t work her iPhone. She’s gurning at it. I think she thinks she’s smiling. Even from my angle I can see she’s getting frustrated. She’s trying to take a selfie with Violent Green but even the iPhone doesn’t want to know them.

A teenager in the seat diagonally opposite has been a) trying not to laugh and b) avoiding eye-contact. Hair leans over and taps the seat. He pretends not to notice. She tries again. 

Sloppy hands. Hitting as much of the boy as the seat now. 

His mum notices but somehow missed the build up. She’s tasked him with showing them how to do it. 

He is rewarded with a front row seat whilst the couple ferociously eat each other’s faces. My mind wanders to various scenes from Aliens.

The selfies have stopped. She’s jabbing at the screen now with a bejewelled hoof. 

I close my eyes as Jack White shreds. The gain is up. Right up! Crunchy up. Nice.

When I reawaken from my self-induced musical coma, Frizzy’s phone is up to her face again, except this time someone else is staring back. A blonde. Hair less frizzy. Massive earrings. They swing back and forth as her mouth flaps open and shut.

I tentatively squeeze my left AirPod and the nose cancelling function disappears, replaced with a full on FaceTime conversation at full volume. It has to be really, the coach is packed. She probably can’t hear her private chinwag, poor thing.

I quickly dive back into Jack White’s world. 

I shut my eyes as the coach driver does his thing. 

Suddenly I’m struck with a panic.

I spend the next two and a half hours fretting that they’ll be on our flight.

—-

Everybody off.

Bags collected. All checked in. Luggage weighed and sent down its little runway. As the suitcases disappear, so did the ravers.

I clear security, tap “play” on some Radiohead, and wait.

Boarding passes scanned. Seats found. I buckle in.

Shoulders are bumped, bags are stowed. 

Passengers have taken their seats. 

The hubbub has died down and I crane my neck over the seats and heads in front of me. There’s a trickle of punters now. 3 more head my way and keep going.

2 sit down in the front seats.

1 more. Another position claimed.

The coast seems clear. I think I’ve made it. 

But then…

A flash of Violent Green.

They’re late boarding. Of course they fucking are. 

Everyone else has taken their seats. There are 2 empty pews beside me. 

I start sweating. My armpits are literally sobbing. 

For the first time in a long time, Sure has let me down. 72hr protection they claim. Protection from what? 

Not this. 

I look up. Row 18. 

I’ve got 17 lives. 

1 down. Shit.

2 down. Oh man.

3 down. Bollocks.

4 down. Ffffuuuccckkk.

5 down. Bollockingshitsticks

6 rows down. 

This is not looking good.

7 now. If there is a god…

Wait. Hold the phone. Green’s stopped. He’s turned around. He looks confused.

Of course. The numbers went higher than five. He was holding a bag. He must have run out of fingers and struggled. He’s lost.

Frizz’ falls into the seat laughing as Violent Green bangs his head on an open overhead compartment door. 

Radiohead start the bing bong bing of No Surprises and I clamp the belt tightly across my lap.