Made It Back

People ask me how my trip was, and I say, 'Interesting'.

That's not to say it was bad - goodness, no. Everything seems to be well with me and Euroboy, and my friend and I didn't fall out, so all good on the personal front. We visited gorgeous beaches and toured the island, drank rum punch, spent our wallets empty and ate our bellies full. I got dark, really dark, and have white bits like you would not believe, despite going topless on the beach. The boyfriends, being milky white on arrival, both turned a delightful shade of healthy gold, without major burning, thanks to regular bastings of SPF.

However, you know your holiday was an eventful one when experiencing an earthquake that rocked the east Caribbean, and measured 7.3 on the Richter scale, was the least traumatic thing to happen to you.

Getting to Antigua was great - a smooth flight, good entertainment, then greeted by a steel band and a fruit punch. How lovely is that? Very.

The flight back? Er, not so much.

There was a fault - relatively minor, but still important enough - on one of the wheels, which would have enabled the pilot to taxi, turn, and fly, my pretties, fly! We were informed of the fault, and told the flight would be an hour behind. There's huffing and puffing, and shrugging of shoulders. I continue to play with the sweet 2-year old blond moppet in the seat in front. His equally blonde mother, a sweet lady, says I resemble her niece, who also happens to be 17. Way to boost my ego!

An hour later, the pilot makes a further announcement. Apparently this is taking a while for the engineers to resolve. A little while later, the skipper comes out into the cabin to address us personally and apologise. It's appreciated, but we're becoming a little restless. Fix it and get us home, already.

3 hours later, having been told that the fault is not going to be resolved there and then, and, by the way, there's something a bit wrong with the landing gear, we have to leave the plane, go back to the airport, and collect our suitcases. This takes approximately one year and one day.

Six hours after boarding the plane originally, we 4 - me, E, my friend J, and her bloke P, are near the back of the queue of nearly 400 people trailing from the check-in desk. We are going to be assigned a hotel. Ho boy. A smash is heard towards the back of the queue, and a loud 'Oo-ooh!' goes up from everyone who hears it. Cue whiplash as everyone turns to look; a man has dropped a bottle of duty-free rum, and is clutching a black bag with liquid and broken glass falling out of it. Saith the queue: 'Aaaawww!'

The 4 of us are assigned a hotel, then reassigned another one. E is not happy. I tell him to calm down. This does not have the desired effect.

The hotel turns out to be the resort next door to the one we left 12 hours earlier. Again, we queue. I am handed a lemonade by E, who's gone to the drinks machine for refreshments. A lady in the queue opens a bottle of vodka, then offers me some. It's all good.

A fantastically kind and lovely security guard lugs my and E's suitcases to our hotel door. It is about 2.30am. The room is filled with mosquitoes, and looks like a scene from the Mummy. Also, the room is a shit hole. E goes to Reception and gets it changed. The room we have is much, much better. E tips the security guard, because he did his job with a good grace and humour that most people struggle with during the day, never mind at 3am and lugging 3 very heavy suitcases up 3 floors. I tumble into bed fully clothes, and sleep.

Now for the wait. What to do, but take advantage of the hospitality? It's all been paid for, so the following morning is spent in a fug of rum punch and strawberry daiquiris, lounging by the pool and telling E how hilarious it is to substitute the 'beeps' in the Pussycat Dolls' song 'Beep' with the word 'cock' (Try it sometime!). He chucks ice cubes down my top. We inhale burgers and listen to reggae songs about 'Christmas in the ghetto'. As P frequently says, it's 'quality'.

Take 2. We leave the hotel at 2.30pm, having been told to be ready at 3. Quite a few people have had this idea already, but it's fine. We are relatively early and whiz though immigration and security again. The only thing is, we're there on faith. The flight hasn't actually been confirmed.

The flight is delayed again, by almost an hour. There's a collective sigh, with a distinct undertone of 'Oh, for fuck's sake...' It turns out 2 people were taken off the flight or decided not to go, or were probably really pissed. Nobody is saying.

The plane taxis veeeerrry slooooowly. I am nervous. Then, something wonderful happens. The plane actually leaves the ground, and spontaneous applause erupts. Shame the flight back was so turbulent, but there we are.

I'll talk about what we did another time, and post photos too (since a post about a holiday without pictures is as useful as a chocolate teapot). But for now, I am back and in one jet lagged, sun-ripened, rum-soaked piece. I think I speak for all my fellow travellers on my flight when I say: 'Thank fuck for that!'

Made It Back - Beverley Knight