Heathrow Terminal 5

Missing flights are a habit of mine. I wish I could say there was a reason for the flight I missed this morning to South Africa. I wish I could give you some solid explanation; an outbreak of swine flu on the way to Heathrow, temporary insanity or helping an old lady to hospital.

Sadly, I can only blame another bad habit of mine: dawdling.

I dawdle the way other people breath - it is unconscious and it takes hours of my life.

Arriving into Heathrow in perfect time this morning I checked my luggage in and chose my seat and wondered around to fetch some breakfast. I had an hour and a half before I had to be at the gate and I considered myself free in an exhausted finale of a crazy week of playing catch-up. The world has been swinging in great arcs of up and down for a few weeks now - the inevitable physical response to moving continents and absorbing oneself back "home" after three years in Asia I suppose.

I had just passed check in.

With my baggage safely stowed, my boarding pass issued absolute relief swept over me. I wanted to change some money into South African Ran. I wanted to say goodbye to my parents, write a text or two, buy a Guardian and perhaps a pair of socks - and by the time I wondered absent mindedly to security, 35 minutes before departure I was desperately looking forward to catching up on the sleep I have been depriving myself of all week -- an anticipated attempt to cram as much life into the hours that I had --- as well as a habitual way of passing long haul flights. Oh glory - eleven hours - I thought. Just me and my book on a flight to South Africa.

When you're a dawdler time is a funny quantity, however. It sticks and clings and then in a leap will evaporate.

And so it was today.

Talking to my mum on the phone as I handed across my boarding pass, the British Airways warden looked stern. I hung up and rushed a "happy birthday mum", before facing the enormous girth of a blue uniformed man. All in the blink of a moment - as tends to happen when one is over-tiered and are attempting to live by the hair's breath skin of your teeth with regards time-tabling - the world came crashing down. And I fell off that thin cord I have been balancing on since I arrived back in Brtain.

"Heathrow Terminal 5 does not accept late comers." He said.

Heathrow Terminal 5 does not only not accept late-comers -- It doesn't matter if you are only 2 minutes late for the appointed time.

The rules (stated in those terms and conditions you skim read once) demand that customers go through security ATLEAST 40 minutes before the flight. 38 minutes just didn't cut it.

"We're sorry madam - but could you please stand aside and let the other passengers through!"

And in a blink the blissful 11 hours to Jo'Berg disappeared, along with my ticket and any chance of getting to South Africa for 3 days - and the beginning of the course I was going to take in humanitarian assistance and the friends who were due to meet me that evening.

As would be the case with any sane individual I dealt with the situation in the only way I thought appropriate.

I got upset and angry at the Security men. I told him he was being unfair and then when others joined him, I told them they were all being unfair. I think I even tried to bribe them (it appears BA security officers don't take kindly to bribery and I was moved firmly away from the security desk and into reservations).

If I really think about it I only feel slightly guilty in my next response, as I waited to meet a "reservations representative" - I wept. Actually weeping makes it sound far too controlled.

It would probably be fairer to say that it was not just a weep, but a sniffling, snot-filled, perhaps verging on the hysterical salt lake of a break-down. Ok... so maybe not break-down. But it brought flashbacks of the last airport breakdown I had (yes - that may also be a habit)- on the way to my Grandmother's funeral - after I was told I didn't have enough money to pay for that flight either.

The situation here was not quite as desperate. But I'd like to point out that three hours of sleep and a week of meeting almost everyone you know in the UK does not prepare you well for these events. Nor does my lack of money - having turned my last hundred pounds into South African Ran... there was little chance of buying a new flight.

Neither my travel agent nor the airport seemed to feel responsibility for the tears that refused to stop dribbling down my face.
And, if I thought about it, my own dawdling was as much to blame as their lack of communication on their policy of throwing people off flights who don't reach security 40 minutes before flights leave.

In that moment I forgave Yangon Local airports their bumbling inefficiency. I forgave them the 6 hour delays and the horrible lack of shops and the 1970's faded brown flooring. I even missed the singular TV with its singular TV channel declaring soap products, three in one coffee mix and jelly drinks "FUN" and "COOL" to horrible Burmese jingles.

I'd like to say I regained my composure somewhat. But in yet another of the many queues of the day I couldn't stop the red-eyes or some leftover sorry-for-myself tears from brimming over. It was in that state that a dear German hedge-fund angel swooped into the picture to offer me a bit of solidarity/remind me of the goodness of humanity and generally cheer me up. He had also missed his flight. He had also been to Burma. He did yoga. He even had the blond hair, gentle voice and soft humour that every angel I have ever imagined possesses.

Somewhere along the lines more rules were emerging. Only Visa and Mastercard are accepted by BA. Air miles cannot be used. And if I you don't book your flight with BA they cancel your return un -used flight.

The only solution seemed to be a one-way ticket, with BA.

Problem 2... the next available flight is three days away --- slam bang into the first week of my course.

But standby is an option.... if I can fork out the 770 quid - oh yes and spend the next three days in Heathrow waiting on standby.

I gulped and took that horrible plunge of realising that although in my present poor state 770 quid is a ridiculous horrendous, impossible amount and will mean I will not be able to come home for Christmas next year.... it will mean I can see three of my closest and favourite people in the world. And one day - I assured myself - it will not seem as bankrupting as it does now.

So, with that, I accepted the overdraft my bank would have to fork out and the helpful offer from the Angel to pay for the ticket on his card while I transferred the non-existent money from my account. And with that, all was solved, and as we laughed that I would now enjoy this trip even more for realising how much I'm spending on it... that is perhaps as it should be.

So I wait, drinking coffees in the corner of terminal 5. I am trying for standby tickets and will not leave Heathrow until I am guaranteed to be leaving it for Jo'Berg... It has been twelve hours since I arrived this morning and so far the three flights a day don't look promising. Wish me luck as I wait and if any of you are passing through Terminal 5, do stop by the singular cafe on the left hand side of departures.