The Christmas you get, you deserve... part 1

“Driving home for Christmas......”, “they said there’ll be snow at Christrmas, they sai.......”, “God rest ye merry gentlem......” “It’s Chrisssssstmaaaaaas!!”....Christmas songs, something we find all over the world. In Indonesia, they’re played because some marketing guy must have decided that if they’re played in other countries, they should be played in Indonesia too. It still seems a trifle odd to hear them blast out in the middle of a supermarket when you’re surrounded by people who generally have no idea what the lyrics mean...in any aspect.

I’m writing this in Newcastle Airport at 11.22 am on the 30th December 2011. I’ve just spent the best part of a week with my Mum, Dad and Brother at my parents house in the Yorkshire Dales, having arrived on Christmas Eve.  Here in the airport’s departure lounge, i’m struck by the absence of atmosphere. Twenty minutes previously, I was sat in the check-in area saying an emotional goodbye to Beryl and Geoff. Dad and i were talking as Mum was trying to re-pack my hand luggage for the umpteenth time wile we sat and enjoyed a Starbucks coffee, pepped up with hazlenut syrup. The atmosphere was one of family unity, sadness at a farewell that will not be replaced with a welcoming handshake and hug for another four months and private thoughts to what that means for each of us. A good atmosphere nonetheless.

 So why was the departure lounge different? Well for one thing it was pretty quiet. I’d expected a flurry of people travelling for new year armed, like me, with reminders of the recent Christmas present-giving. Instead, sat enjoying a pint of lager while I write this, I could count the number of people on my body’s digits. 

The second reason was the lack of background/ambient music/muzak. Everywhere you go in the UK these days, it seems you have your own personal soundtrack. For the last 4 months it’s been a mix of Roy Wood, Slade, Mudd, Mel Smith and Kim Wilde and the man, without whom Christmas would have no doubt died off years ago, Cliff Richard. These songs continue to be played post-Christmas as a reminder that in a few short months  we’ll be doing it all again. Or maybe it’s that the marketing team in the shops haven’t remembered to change the disc. What I do know is that this airport was too quiet. (this would be a great intro to a thriller novel)

The barmaid had told me that it had been extremely busy earlier so maybe I’d missed the rush. Another small wierdness was the departure screen. Always full of necessary info, this particular monitor advised that the length of my waiting time for boarding was forty-one “shopping minutes”....maybe time works differently in Newcastle. It was proving  an unusual end to a holiday.

Why had I travelled back to England for a week? Well my reasons for visiting were three-fold. Firstly, Dad has cancer and the thought of a full family christmas for the four of us was too much to miss. Secondly it’s been 3 years since I left the UK to take up my new career in education. Finally, whilst never homesick, the pull of fresh unsweetened milk, sausages available anytime any place, anywhere and a tolerance of people who "take a drink", was just too damn overwhelming!

Christmas Eve saw me arrive in Manchester to a bright, sunny morning. This vision of beauty changed on leaving the airport to get to the train station. The shock of the cold wind that seemed immediately to grip every bone of my body was incredible. It should be mentioned that I have been in some challenging situations in the past. At 10 years old I remember being sat in my then girlfriends house enjoying a youthful kiss and cuddle just as her parent's car pulled unexpectedly early onto the drive. The Ethan Hunt-style response, brought about by the shock of their early return, was to dive out the back door of the house, leap the garden fence into the adjacent sports fild and then casually walk back round to her front door to ask if she was in.

On another memorable occasion, I was trapped in a broken down van with fellow members of the 1st Catterick Village Scout Troop, freezing my nuts off as we waited for the repairman to arrive. That was cold. But, the shock and cold that I felt on leaving Manchester Airport was on a different level entirely. It had been eigteen months since I’d been in the UK and that was in the Summer. This was a different kettle of mince pies altogether. 

Before leaving Indonesia I’d searched in vain for a thick winter coat. Indonesians do feel cold but the noticeable lack of mink or seals to skin and make winter coats with should have led me to realise that most shop assistants would just laugh at me. So it was that I'd packed my trusty fleece, bought for a few quid in Thailand 3 years ago, to go over the top of the two t-shirts I was wearing. (I'd figured more layers would be insulating). Now I'm not saying that i nostalgically remember winters in England as being like Summer, but i seriously wasn't expecting this. To top it off, the queue for train tickets was taking ages to move. I wrapped my hands around the still-warm sausage roll bought on my way out of the airport and waited my turn.

Indonesia, as I may have mentioned, has a lack of trains. What I can guarantee is that if the rail networks keep charging what they are for tickets, I'm not sure the UK will have any left either. I know that buying tickets in advance gets you a reduction in price but really, FORTY FIVE QUID?? ONE-WAY???. Manchester Airport to Northallerton is not a long journey. For that price I can fly to Bali from Jakarta, and back again!

Regardless of price, the train journey was a memorable one due to the places we passed through. Halifax, Huddersfield, Dewsbury, Leeds and York are places I have spent plenty of time over the years and the lack of outward change (with the exception of the Ferris Wheel in York) was surprising.

I'd used up the last of my Indonesian credit on my phone in calling mum and dad from Manchester, the guy who answered had politely informed me i had the wrong number, so arriving in Northallerton I tried from the (60p per call) payphone. This time I got the number right and Dad told me that my brother Glen was on his way and would be there shortly. Another chance to feel the cold northerly wind chill me to the bone again. Glen duly arrived and whisked us the 25 minutes or so back to Leyburn.