When the bartender at the airport bar says “are you still here?”  You know something has gone badly wrong with your holiday…

As I write this, I should be walking the streets of historic Venice, lapping up the culture, the sights, the architecture (and the booze).

Instead I’m sat in my dingy office at home bemoaning the state of the world. It goes something like this;

We arrive at Bristol International Airport full of that optimistic buzz you always get when you are about to go on holiday. We line up with all the other various folks either skipping and twittering, happy that they are off to sunnier and more relaxing climes – or trudging and dragging a case knowing they are going home.

Our turn at the check-in and the sloping foreheaded drone behind the counter cheerfully informs us our flight is delayed 3 hours. I refrain from speaking my mind at this point. It can’t be the weather, because when we arrived it looked like this;

Bristol Airport,  situation normal.

5 hours pass in a haze of bad bad takeaway food, and ludicrously expensive beer and wine. For a time the weather turns towards the worrying – snowstorms hit.

Bristol Airport,  Snow storm!

But departs as quickly as it arrives. Finally we are called to our gate for boarding. Where we wait.

And wait….

And are told to wait just 15 minutes more for an announcement.

It’s hard not to notice the conspicuous arrival of airport police at the gate, just a short moment prior to the announcement. Expecting trouble are we?

So there it is, the squawking tannoy voice informs us that the flight has been canceled, because easyjet can’t find a crew for the plane. Did you look down the back of the sofa for one? Did you not realise the plane would need a crew before you called us to the gate, after making us wait FIVE HOURS? You total, total arseholes.

“Please proceed to the easyjet helpdesk for more information, and a brain aneurysm bought on through pure distilled airport rage.”

Airport rage is (thankfully) unique in that it’s on the whole utterly impotent, and pointless. The monosyllabic and infuriatingly un-apologetic cretin behind the counter doesn’t care about you – and can’t help you by virtue of being at the bottom of both the easyjet food ladder, and apparently also the gene pool.

So we find ourselves at home, and having been refunded for our entire holiday without any undue fuss or hassle, and without me needing to “express myself” on the phone to the queasyjet helpliner. We’ve re-booked and actually saved money on the re-booking. These are small, but welcome mercies.

Now I’m off to unpack my suitcase.