Creative writing

Question 1

Paragraph 1 (Intro)

Answer 1

I don’t know about you, but I’ve always loathed airports; the smell of them; the anonymity; the fake smiles of those uniformed mannequins who welcome you into their artificial, overly sanitised interiors. The other thing that really destroys my confidence about these so-called temples of hyper-technology – is my fear of missing my flight. Normally, I am punctual on every occasion. Famed by my organised approach to life – my friends charmingly call me the metronome – because I never miss anything, ever. But airports – well… they’re something else. The minute you step inside, you relinquish all control and your life is quite literally in their hands.

Question 2

Paragraph 2 (arriving at the airport)

Answer 2

December 2022. 6.02am. I arrive (punctually, of course) at Stansted Airport. A hole of a place on the outskirts of goodness knows where. I’ve successfully navigated the scores of families, business men and elated holiday makers to find the correct terminal. The first decision I have to make is whether I have time to buy a quick coffee before check in or should I head straight to desk 54. I could see the gate number flashing; its beady electronic glare filled me with anxiety. Placing my case on the floor I take in my surroundings, observe the brimming queue for costa and decide, instantly, that I can forego my caffeine hit and had better get my stuff checked in.

Question 3

Paragraph 3 (check in finished)

Answer 3

6.15am. Check in accomplished I purposefully stride towards the nearest escalator veering towards ‘departures. My gate number is already flashing – and with that my heart rate increases, rhythmically beating in step to my rapid footfall. A no nonsense security woman eyes me up and down barking something unintelligible at me about taking my belt and shoes off before passing through security.
(Why do these women always have such excessively loud voices?)

Question 4

Paragraph 4 (the queue)

Answer 4

The queue moves agonisingly slowly… Should I ask to be moved forward or should I simply risk it and wait for Mr and Mrs Slower than Slow to unpack their toiletries, laptops and hairdryers before I can get ahead? The decisions flutter in my chest like caged birds causing me to sweat and clench my fists in frustration.

Question 5

Paragraph 5 (Coffee)

Answer 5

6.42 am. I’m through. Just one more obstacle before my flight awaits. I eye the coffee stall. Too bad, the queue is snarled up with hordes of bustling travellers, but I simply cannot face a four-hour flight without a snap of caffeine.
Impatiently I twitch, waiting to be served by someone wearing a ridiculously clean uniform. Their too happy greeting grates in my ears. ‘Coffee, I just want a coffee – and quick.’ Turning her back the barista presses a bright silver button; a jet of steam and a delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee greets my senses. She passes me the paper cup and wishes me a safe flight…
I run.
Towards gate 31.

Question 6

Paragraph 6 (phone lost)

Answer 6

6.50am. The check in team are there scanning boarding passes and passports. I reach into my left-hand pocket to retrieve my phone. Nothing. I try the right-hand pocket. Nothing. There’s absolutely no sign of the phone in any pocket. The boarding gate flashes - now highlighted in red.
A decision had to be made: sprint back to search in the coffee shop in the hope of finding it or let it go and miss my flight…

Question 7

Paragraph 7 (ending)

Answer 7

7.12am. I’ve always hated airports. And today just confirmed that for me. My fruitless attempt to retrieve the phone ended in disaster. Not only was the flight missed, but also – my phone; my brand new phone; lies cracked and beyond repair in my hand.
It went something like this: pushing through the inevitable throngs of meandering tourists, I land at the barista’s counter. Panting, I breathlessly ask for the phone. ‘Ahhh, it’s yours mate – here ya go.’ His irritatingly casual manner propels my blood pressure to beyond what’s healthy or safe. Bag in one hand, coffee in the other I turn and jam the phone into my, safe, back pocket…but miss. I hear it before I see it. Smashed glass – an unrecognisable screen haunts me; its shattered face a crooked grin staring back at me.
I sink to the floor.
The hoards swarm around me. I’m lost amid the hubbub. Echoing glints of the departure board loom in digitised red. Somewhere, I think I hear my name being called.
I’ve always hated airports. I sit. The flight’s departed. But at least, I have my coffee.