Something to Declare

Sam Delaney is running late

I AM RUNNING ALONG A TRAVELATOR, a rucksack on my back and two plastic carrier bags digging into each hand. I am red in the face and panting loudly, as my eyes dart around in despair for a sign saying “gate number 24” and my flight to Madrid. I’m a mess. How did this happen? It’s hard to say.

Could it have been the fact that I casually booked a taxi to pick me up from home just half an hour prior to the suggested check-in time? Or was it the fact that, once I’d got there and passed through security, I spent 40 minutes meandering around the shops, stocking up on newspapers, magazines, jumbo Fruit & Nut bars, historical paperbacks I will never actually get around to reading, international plug adapters, inflatable neck-support cushions and bottles of gin?

Or could it be that the weight of all that pointless shopping has weighed me down on the way to the departure gate, adding crucial seconds to my journey? No doubt it’s a combination of all those factors. But the simpler way of explaining my current predicament is this: I am travelling without my wife.

When I’m with my wife, everything seems so much more, how shall I put it… fascistic? There are itineraries and schedules, to-do lists and travel managers. Yes, that’s right, I’m married to someone who owns a wallet designed specifically for travel documents. There’s no stopping at shops – she won’t allow it. The moment we enter the airport, she heads for the departure gate with the same cold-eyed focus as a shark homing in on its prey. And as for stopping for a snack at Pret A Manger?

You must be joking! As far as she’s concerned, eating at airports is for the weak and rarely punctual. Besides, as she so often points out, you can buy, if you need to, anything you desire on the plane.

Suffice it to say, I never find myself running along travelators when she’s around. How could I? Usually, we get to the departure gate so early that we end up just staring out onto the empty runway for hours, grimly contemplating a game of Travel Scrabble. Which might sound organised and grown up but is also bloody boring. Give me a last-minute dash to the gate any time – the thrill of hearing my name read out over the Tannoy is a novelty I’ll never get bored of.

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