Out to Atlanta

I'm in no rush. My flight isn't until 16:45. Plenty of time to pack the last few bits and bobs and eat something. Though I plan on getting to the airport well ahead of time. Who knows what sort of delays I might endure there?

I check when the next 15 bus is due. As loads of staff are off sick with Covid, the GVB is running a reduced service. No need in hanging around unnecessarily at the bus stop.

I just miss a 397 at Haarlemmermeerstation. Luckily, I only have to wait a few minutes for the next.

Schiphol is like a ghost town. Almost no-one around. Which I don't mind, as it makes everything quicker and less stressful. Where is everyone? It was much busier than this when I went to Brazil in November. I thought things were supposed to be getting back to normal? Usually, the airport would be packed with winter holidaymakers at this time of year.

Fortunately, KLM twice extended my gold status during the lockdowns. I troll along to the lounge for some free scran and booze. I can have my pick of seats. Only a handful of other punters.

I don't go crazy. A couple of whiskies and a bit of food. Two orange juices, too. Want to keep the vitamins topped up.

Heading off to the gate early, I realise that they're boarding ahead of time.

Once seated, I've a while to wait before take-off. Best watch some rubbish on the entertainment system. Damn. The screen doesn't respond, no matter how frantically I tap on it. As the two seats to my left are unoccupied, I shuffle along to the next one. The screen does work here. But it's set in Russian. How the hell do I change the language setting?

I don't get chance to find out as someone sitting in the row behind is in the wrong seat. He comes and occupies the window seat and I scuttle back to the aisle. I'm not going to sit getting bored for forty minutes and whip out my laptop. Let's see what Dolores has loaded up for me.

There are a couple of episodes from Al Murray's last series I haven't seen yet. That'll do.

I pack away my laptop just before take-off. The seat belt sign hasn't even been switched off when the cunt in the seat in front of me goes full recline. What a total and utter selfish bastard. No way I can use my laptop with that cunt's seat in my lap.

Luckily, there are plenty of empty seats. I move across the aisle as soon as the fasten seatbelt sign goes out. No chance of being reclined on here. The seat in front is vacant. As is the seat to my right. Perfect for dumping all my crap on.

I struggle to find something to watch on the entertainment system. Either it's something I don't want to watch of I've already seen it. Eventually, I opt for Hall Pass. It's even more dreadful than I feared. It passes some time, that's the best I can say about it.

The flight drags a bit. I can only find one other film to watch: Two Weeks' Notice. Also, pretty bad, but time-passing. When that's done, I revert to my laptop.

We land on time, despite departure being a little delayed by a no-show whose bags had to be unloaded.

This is great. Not too much walking to immigration and not much of a queue. I’m through in just a few minutes. They don't even take my fingerprints. Why is that? Do they already have them on file? But how do they know that? This is the first time I've used this ESTA.

Soon I'm bouncing down the freeway in a taxi. My driver is Bangladeshi and we chat about cricket.

I'm at my hotel about an hour after landing. Pretty good going. I relax with some duty-free whisky. Not Islay. That’s got too fucking expensive. All over 70 euros now. Instead, I got a bottle of 37-euro Tominton. I'm not made of fucking money.

By midnight I'm ready for whisky-assisted lights out.