Mission possible

"Something to Declare"

It's precisely zero nine-hundred hours as I walk through the gigantic swooshing doors and into departures. I reach the check-in desk and speak with the assistant in short, sharp replies. I sense chemistry but there’s no time for niceties – I snatch my boarding pass and, while she is still pondering a million romantic possibilities, I am striding across the concourse and towards passport control with the unemotional focus of a shark. I am a man on a mission. There is somewhere I must be. And that somewhere is Costa Coffee, so I can squeeze in an all-day-breakfast sandwich and a latte before it’s time to board my flight.

I may be acting like I’m a spy on my way to take out a dangerous military dictator in some far away rogue state but, the truth is, I am just a simple man on his way to watch a football match in Newcastle. And there’s nothing very exotic about that.

I always start acting like this whenever I come anywhere near an airport. It’s a hangover from childhood I suppose, when flying on an aeroplane seemed like the kind of dangerous and sexy thing that only James Bond would do. I’m one of those dingbats who still dresses smartly whenever I have to board a plane. I iron a shirt and polish my shoes and everything. I make more of an effort for a short flight across the Channel than I did for my own wedding day. It’s pathetic, but I can’t help it.

I like to imagine that onlookers sense my air of urbane sophistication and simmering danger. Sometimes I even stand around pretending to speak into my cuff just to look even more mysterious. I want people to think that I am Jack Bauer or Jason Bourne. That I am secretly notifying my shadowy bosses that our target is on the move and I have him in my sights. But they can probably see I’m just a sad fantasist who’s mumbling a load of meaningless nonsense into a button. I don’t care.

Travel can sometimes be boring. Most people relieve this boredom with an iPod, a magazine or a jumbo book of crosswords. Whereas I like to pretend I have a disassembled sniper’s rifle stored in the sole of my Italian leather slip-ons. It somehow helps to pass the time.

Text by Sam Delaney