Posts Tagged ‘ Holiday ’

A open letter to my employer.

To whom it may concern,

Just to let you know, I’m going to be booking a week off in Easter.

Now, this isn’t;

“I’m requesting a week off in Easter so I can see my parents. Approve or deny them according to your availability.”,

but more;

“Here is my notice to you that I will not be coming into work between (and including) these dates. I will be in Germany visiting my parents. I don’t care if you don’t have the availability, I worked through Christmas. You can find someone who had their Christmas off and deny their holidays so I can have mine during the Easter week.”

In the coming week or so I shall find out the dates of the Easter break and submit my holiday “request”. I shall book my flights the same day. I shall also book a taxi to and from the airport and my excitement levels will continue to rise no-matter what your decision. I will purchase books and music to read and listen to while flying / waiting in airports and I will tell my mobile phone provider to enable European roaming and apply an International Call Saver package to my contract.

The evening before my flight, I shall pack clothes into my suitcase and will be unable to sleep with excitement. On the day of my flight I shall get up, get ready to go to the airport. A taxi will arrive and I will be driven to the airport. I shall pay the man the £20 fare and check in at the check in desk. I shall put my suitcase on the conveyor belt and show the kind lady my passport. She will look confused as to who the long-haired, bearded, bespectacled (and notably heavier) man is who stands before her when the man in the passport photograph is so thin, square-jawed, short-haired, clean-shaven and altogether sexier. I will attempt to assure her that he is me – removing my spectacles and pushing my hair back ought to do the trick.

I will then walk to the boarding lounge where I will show my British Airways lounge card to the smiling lady (I think her name is June, or at least, it was the last time I was there) and flop myself down in the deepest, comfiest looking sofa I can find. A waiter will ask me if I’d like a drink and “maybe something to eat, sir?”. I’ll have a club sandwich and a glass of sparkling water. It will be delicious. I’ll sit and read the paper, glancing up at the 42-inch plasma television on the wall every other minute or so, and wait for my flight status to change to ‘Boarding’.

I’ll fold my paper in half, get up from my sofa and throw my hand-luggage over my shoulder. I’ll nip to the loo before the flight (I hate peeing in the air) and saunter along to the boarding desk, all the while taking in my surroundings and generally not giving a fuck about anything. I’ll have plenty of time to board the flight. I shan’t worry about that. I’ll probably buy 250g of tobacco and maybe some whisky from Duty Free. The woman will ask me if I need any watches or sunglasses. I’ll smile, consider her offer but will probably decline. I already have my beloved Casio Databank 150 (a calculator watch) and Germany isn’t exactly Belize.

I’ll get up to the boarding desk, show the woman my boarding pass and she’ll smile, say “Welcome aboard, Mr…” and pronounce my surname incorrectly. I’ll beam at her and let the mispronunciation slide. I’ll walk along the gangway leading to my plane, be welcomed aboard yet again and told to turn to the right upon entering the craft. I’ll shuffle up the plane, careful not to hit anyone with my hang luggage and find my seat. Hopefully it will be just behind the wing so I can see the engines in front of me. I’ll probably open my laptop and write something, maybe I’ll pop my earphones in and drown out the murmur of the cabin and just look out of the window. I’ll wait for the doors to close and the people to settle down in their seats. I’ll watch the flight attendants perform their little “the exits are here, here and here” routine and look back out of the window.

A little while later I’ll feel the engines firing up, roaring as they go. I’ll feel how the cabin vibrates as the engine revs harder and harder. I’ll try to guess which frequencies are making the cabin vibrate and I’d wish that I’d remembered to bring my spectrum analyser aboard, but then I’d remember how ignorant some people are and the fact that my harmless piece of acoustic analysis equipment might be mistaken by some idiot for an explosive device. The idiot would then panic and start screaming in, and about, terror. I’ll feel the plane start to move, the cabin rocking left and right and the wings bouncing up and down in accordance with the bumps on the runway. We’ll approach the runway and stop moving. Thirty seconds later the engines will roar into life and the plane will jolt forward! Faster and faster she goes, my head pressed against the headrest until…

The ground becomes distant. The houses turn into Monopoly pieces. Cars turn into multicoloured ants and I start trying to spot my house. The feeling of taking off, leaving the ground, defying human limitations and the thought of where I’m bound fills me with complete and utter joy.

My homeland becomes smaller and smaller. Towns are barely an inch long. The country is hidden beneath cloud and the bright yellow sun floods into the cabin. The texture of the clouds is that of meringue. The peaks of white fluff cast shadows and add colour and texture to the scene. The sky is an endless blue. I’ll take a picture. I’ll remember how much I love flying. I’ll remind myself for the thousandth time that I’m going to see my parents. It’s definitely going to happen. I’ve left Glasgow and all that city entails. I’m going to see my parents.

I’ll see my brother, my sister. I’ll hug them and tell them how much I’ve missed them, a smile on my face so large it hurts. I’ll shake my Dad’s hand, but we both know it’ll turn into a hug. I’ll tell him how much I love him. I’ll kneel down and hold the muzzle of Dennis, my Springer Spaniel, in both hands. He’ll lick my face and probably knock me onto my back in excitement. And then I’ll see my mum. I’ll be in tears at this point. I’ll probably drop my bags and leave my suitcase on the driveway and run to hug her. I probably won’t say anything until a minute or so later, at which point she’ll offer me a cup of tea.

What I won’t be doing, however, is talking to idiots about cross-network minutes, data allowances, 14-day returns policies and PAC numbers. You can bet this month’s wage that I won’t be telling the same person over and over again that “it’s the best deal we can do, madam” or “no, we can’t match your renewal price, sir” and I definitely won’t be getting an earful from Mr. Jones in Dagenham about how his iPhone hasn’t arrived and how utterly furious he is and how we’re “an absolute shambles of a network” or some such tripe.

No. I shan’t be dealing with any of that.

I will be found in my parent’s kitchen, laughing with my family, a mug of tea in hand and a Spaniel at my feet.
Just so you know.

Yours truly,