Delayed

For the first time ever, I was able to sleep before a flight. I even slept well. I woke up in time, did the last things I had to do, left early but in no hurry. It was a nice clear summer night outside. The moon was pretty, the crickets were singing. The bus came on time. The driver was nice to me. The next bus came on time. People were nice to me and smiled. When I arrived at the terminal at the exact time I expected to I knew something wasn't right. This can't be happening, I told myself. No last-minute rushes, no running down aisles loaded with bulky items, shouting at morons and jumping queues, no sweating, no panting, no stress, no panic. Too good to be true. Too perfect.

A perfectly engineered plan working out just fine. I started to panic. Something's wrong, I kept telling myself.

I started going over my to-do list and my to-take list. Surely I had forgotten my ID? No such luck. Mobile phone charger? Securely in my backpack. Maybe I left the oven on at home? Nope. Left the lights on? Not at all.

A sense of impending doom started crawling up my spine. My plane's gonna blow up, I thought. Or worse, instead of London I'll end up in Liverpool. I must have cancer. And swine flu. And AIDS. I'm about to be robbed, then murdered. No, murdered first. My eyes kept darting side to side, expecting the unexpected any instant.

When I arrived at the check-in desk, the relief was tangible, warm and wet. My flight was delayed 4 hours. "Oh, so that was it!", I cried and started dancing around, kissing babies and hugging old ladies.