Unexpected trip to Canada. 2

 <o:p></o:p>

Bev had taken care when booking the seats so that we all three sat together and that we had at least a window seat and an aisle seat for my long legs. This was good. Good until we were airborne and she insisted too many times on leaning over Owen to peer out of the window. He offered to swap, but of course, it wasn’t necessary. Shortly into the flight I also discovered that the rare atmosphere had an effect upon her bladder control. Is forty times too many times to visit the bathroom facilities? Or is it just me? By the time the flight was over Bev was on nodding terms with the entire rear section of the flight and had precise knowledge of the hometowns of the sullen flight attendants. When I say they were sullen, I think they just got ticked off at this relentless traffic from row G to the rear of the plane.<o:p></o:p>

 <o:p></o:p>

It’s been a long time since I flew on a commercial flight. I’ll come clean; it was a BUA charter-flight on a BAC 111 from Heathrow to RAF Guttersloh in 1967. The difference was unimaginable. We had flight information straight to TV monitors, in-flight entertainment, and food. Only real difference was we are no longer allowed to smoke. Bear in mind, this smoker had been without his anti-social habit for four hours in the Departure Lounge ( that damned medical kit! ) and eight hours on the aeroplane. I wasn’t quite first off when we landed. I had to climb over several strapping ladies, argue with a German man and his very vocal family and barge my way past forty or so foreigners who foolishly believed they had priority. All I wanted was to collect the luggage, clear Customs and Immigration and get outside for a fix.<o:p></o:p>

 <o:p></o:p>

Bev and Owen were not as agile and aggressive as me. I waited while the rest of the flight de-planed. They strolled happily towards me as I glared at the luggage carousel, willing our luggage to appear. With two hundred undeserving people in front, we queued for Customs and Immigration. I could feel my friendly pipe and tobacco in my pocket. Customs; and a school leaver who had apparently flunked every workshop class available, and had to be forced from school on the basis that twenty-five years old, was too old to still be at school �?and here he was, waiting to greet us. Bev passed through first. We were separated by a statutory ten feet lest we confuse this idiot any more by crowding him. I could see that Bev was bristling and contemplating an education in manners, grace and charm. She passed through and he summoned Owen.<o:p></o:p>

 <o:p></o:p>

Owen stepped forward and surrendered his passport and ticket. From ten feet away I could see and hear that Owen was not able to answer the questions that were being asked. He looked back to me for help. I stepped forward. “I’m the boy’s father, let me help him, and you out.�?With the utmost reluctance, I was allowed to assist: I’m a British citizen, I’m used to queuing, used to arrogant beaurocrats, used to answering pointless questions, used to snotty, spotty youths and shoddy service. I’m used to foreigners ‘phoning me while resting at home, telling me that I must be some sort of idiot - for not banking with them, buying my gas and electricity off them, purchasing their ‘phone networks, double glazing. This youth, maybe Canadian Customs and Immigration, takes the biscuit.

 

"Have you visted a farmland or touched any livestock in England within the last twentyfour hours?"

"No" (Owen wants to say something, I silence him with a look!) More inane questions about farm animals.

“Why are you visiting Canada?�?lt;o:p></o:p>

“We’re taking a holiday.�?lt;o:p></o:p>

“Where are you staying?�?lt;o:p></o:p>

“Orillia�?lt;o:p></o:p>

�?SPAN>Where are you staying  in Orillia?�?lt;o:p></o:p>

“With Shirley and Nick. Do you know them?�?lt;o:p></o:p>

“Shirley and Nick Who?�?lt;o:p></o:p>

“Howard.�?lt;o:p></o:p>

“What is their address?�?lt;o:p></o:p>

“I don’t know, we’re being met.�?lt;o:p></o:p>

“What is the relationship with these people?�?lt;o:p></o:p>

“These people? Shirley is my sister in law, my wife’s sister. Nick is her husband�?<o:p></o:p>

“And where is your wife?�?lt;o:p></o:p>

“She’s ten feet away, over there, the one that’s looking a bit cross.�?lt;o:p></o:p>

(He’s beginning to look a little weary.)<o:p></o:p>

“Have you any gifts for any Canadian citizen worth more than thirty dollars?�?/FONT>

“I don’t have that much regard for any Canadian citizens. No�?<o:p></o:p>

(Cold stare.)<o:p></o:p>

“Enjoy your stay.�?/FONT>

“I really wish you meant that.�?/SPAN>

<o:p></o:p> 

I could sense him reaching for his white latex gloves and the alarm button. Get me out of here!