QUEUING

A faint smell of vomit wafts through the air with the sound of wailing babies. It’s been a long journey and the last thing anyone wanted was this.

The queue snakes around tape barriers to make us feel like we’re getting some where when we are not.

If Sisyphus was alive today his punishment would be queuing. His boulder replaced by a wheely suitcase and the hill by a river of snaking red tape.

On the other side loved ones wait, as well as endless blue skies, white beaches and long days of relaxation. Making the journey on the large iron bird over serpent filled seas, snowcapped mountains and sprawling city’s skylines, all worthwhile.

Just got to get past this. One last hurdle.

I can feel the impatience of the person behind me as they ram their carry on into the back of my legs for the third time.

I want to turn around and remind them about personal space, about patience and general good manners. Ask them if I’ve forgotten to take off my cloak of invisibility- again? Chill out. Remind them that as much as they want to, they can’t walk through me.

They do it again and these hypothetical arguments evaporate. I just want to hit them.

I turn around and give them a look. They haven’t even realised how unbelievably annoying they are. So I turn back and say nothing.

We move forward… six inches.

No one wants to be in this purgatory but we’re powerless to do anything about it. We except it and let the faceless staff herd us into lines like mooing cattle.

There’s no day light in here, just the unforgiving florescent tubes that wash the colour out of everything and make it look flat.

After what seems like an eternity, I reach the booth. Eyes lowered I slide my open passport through the slot in the window.

The man behind the counter flicks through the pages past the stamps of previous destinations as if he’s flicking through scenes of my life. I remember each one vividly. Happy memories like photographs come flooding back. My life flashes before my eyes.

Eventually he gets to the very last page and stamps it with a black skull. Almost instantly, my passport implodes in a cloud of smoke like a magic trick. Puff. Gone.

I look up into a skeletal face. I’m not scared, I’m just annoyed I didn’t see it coming.

Now I come to think about it, there was a nasty storm somewhere over the Atlantic and I don’t think I remember landing.

He looks at me and asks. "Did you pack any fruit or vegetables?”

“No.” – I reply.

It was not the question I was expecting. I was mentally preparing myself for a riddle, like Frodo in ‘Lord of the Rings’. A deep philosophical question, or at least ‘What is your favourite colour?’

"Stand in front of the camera.”

I do as I’m told. I actually smile, force of habit. I always find the fruit and veg question amusing. He ushers me on, and I see familiar smiling faces waving at me just beyond the barrier. The stress of the Journey evaporates like my passport.

At last, I’m free to enter the afterlife, where I’m sure there won’t be any queuing.