I’ve an afternoon flight. I could get a couple of hours in town. But I really can’t be arsed. What would I do with my luggage, anyway?
I spend the morning watching crap TV in my hotel room. Then check out at noon exactly. Before that just long enough to be annoying walk. It really is annoying with my full set of luggage.
Strictly speaking, I’m a little too early to check in my bag. But the nice lady at the counter lets me do it, anyway. Great. I don’t have to lug all that crap around with me anymore. I shouldn’t have brought so many books. But it’s almost impossible to guess how many I’ll need.
I get myself a sarnie for the plane and an Observer for Dolores in WH Smiths. I say it’s for Dolores, but I’ll be reading it, too.
Edinburgh airport has the luxury of a Wetherspoons both airside and landside. I choose the latter. I’ve got a couple of hours to kill. What better place to get out the AK47 and go crazy? Spraying that bastard time with a full clip.
Well blow me. They’ve got a Mild on:
Strahaven Craigmill Mild, 3.5%, £3.85
This is weird. Getting Mild in an airport. And a Scottish Mild, at that. Dry and slightly malty. A real easy drinker.
Two youths sat behind me keep playing music. A bloke in his 60’s takes exception to it. “What are you doing? People are trying to eat and drink here.”
It doesn’t go down well with the lads. “I’m off to Ibiza. What are you doing?” As if that somehow explains their behaviour. This could turn nasty. I imagine glasses and fists flying. But after a while of arguing across the bar, things calm down. And the lads get back to knocking back pints of cheap Lager.
Time for another pint and some scran.
Stewart Brewing Edinburgh Gold, 4.8%, £3.85
It is a lovely clear gold colour. Mmm that’s nice. Soft and with a fair bit of what taste like English hops, also a little underlying sweetness.
I’m tempted to order an all day brunch. But that would be just too much. I can’t eat one every day I’m here. I’m tempted by the fish and chips, but eventually plump for beef and ale pie. It’s a proper pie, not stew with a pastry lid. If you can’t hold it in your hand, it isn’t a pie.
I while away the hours reading the paper and slowly sucking down a few pints. Then it’s time to go through security. Which thankfully doesn’t have much of a queue.
A better flight than on the way out. When all they served was a piece of cake. This time it’s an egg sandwich.
Bit of a queue again at Schiphol passport control. But I suppose that does mean I spent less time by the carousel waiting for my bag to appear.
I’m knacked, so I take a taxi home. What an extravagant git I am.
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