Got the t-shirt

Chaos reigns in the small departure lounge, the airline whose initials stand for ‘Leaving late Again’ is quite unsurprisingly, delayed.

The locals resigned by experience, sit upright in groups, bags on their laps talking quietly among themselves, seasoned travellers snooze on benches or the floor, one ear listening out for the tannoy. One older lady appears to be sleeping on a bench, head on an expensive backpack and covered with a sarong.

A group of American youngsters hog the centre, noisy overexcited, boasting of sexual exploits, rum drunk, mountains climbed and exactly which bands they saw at the island music festival.

The tannoy crackles into life, everyone falls silent, except one young lass in full flow telling a particular salacious tale, her voice now unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Everyone turns to look at her as she falls silent, her face now red.

Then the passengers start collecting up their bags, dropping paper coffee mugs into bins and setting off to line up and hoping to finally leave, the old lady swings her legs off the bench and folds up the sarong.

she catches the eye of the young beetroot coloured boaster and winks

“been there, done that, got the t-shirt”

she turns away and flicks her long white plait over her shoulder

the back of her shirt reads

Woodstock festival

50 year reunion