It's that time of year
When the holiday comes around
And I've trawled every shop in town
For trousers that fit me,
And suddenly it hits me
As I'm waiting to board the plane
That all the stress, the going insane
To get away is the only reason
I need a holiday this season

So I'm sat at the gate,
Six hours early because I'd hate to be late,
Despite living fifteen minutes away
And I'm passing the time reading a book
But my wife is giving me that look
That says she's bored, won't be ignored,
She expects me to entertain her
And I'm going insane (again)

Roll forward past an eternity
Of clock watching,
Of people watching,
Of checking the departures board,
And finally we're boarding
And finding our neat little seats
Specially designed with pixies in mind,
With storage space for a mushroom
And no noticeable legroom that I can find

The stewardesses trundle their trolleys
With offerings of lukewarm tea,
Bitter strong coffee,
A small selection of dusty dainties
And days old sandwiches
(Credit card or cash, Sir?)
You expect me to pay more
For what used to be free?
No thanks, just the lukewarm tea

Lurching to a stop after a bumpy drop,
I whisper a prayer of thanks
To the gods of pilots and engineers,
Resist the urge to shout three cheers,
Just the scrummage in the aisle
And a fight for the overhead space
To retrieve the frilly lace
Handkerchief that somehow exceeded
The airlines stringent weight limits
For my hand luggage permits,
Incurring an additional fee as a penalty

The airport signs indicate the way
To an endless corridor of rotating
Carousels, a new kind of hell
Where strangers stand shoulder to shoulder,
Giving no quarter as they wait and wait
For the baggage handlers, who went on a break
The minute the plane arrived,
And until they've checked inside
Every likely looking bag
For cameras, iPhones and valuable swag
They'll keep us waiting and anticipating

This time we got lucky,
All the bags arrived, most of them survived
Intact, though one was so bashed
It looked like a giant had smashed
A heavy boot down, just to make us pay
For going away on holiday
A quick run past the customs men
With their sidearms and sideways glances
And we're free and clear in the outside air

We join a rank queue of sweaty fliers
At the rank queue of sweaty cab drivers
And wait our turn to learn our fate,
Which cab will we get to hate?
We've taken a second mortgage on our home,
Lived six months without a phone
Or electricity just to save enough cash
For this last mad dash,
A quick hop to the hotel,
A quick prayer that the linen won't smell,
And one final night of broken sleep
Before the going is complete
And we have officially "Arrived".