My boarding pass stated specifically that I should go there to organise the ‘special requirements’ I had requested online when I booked my flight from Alicante to Manchester. But the bag-drop girl was having none of it. “You are in the wrong place,’’ she insisted, pointing to an office window where several people were busy haranguing the lone occupant.
I duly joined the queue and waited a few minutes, during which time the line reduced by a whole person.
Becoming increasingly anxious, I looked at my boarding pass again. It clearly stated I should go to the bag drop, so I wandered back to the Easyjet desk and joined the queue of people waiting to check in. By now I was becoming a little agitated. Here I was, in an extremely embarrassing position, seeking wheelchair assistance for the first time in my life. I felt so guilty, but equally relieved that I did not have to join the logjam of passengers funnelling through the crowded security checks.
It was a busy Friday evening and it crossed my mind that I should forget the wheelchair and make my way to security with my hand luggage as I had always done during the five years or so I had been living in Spain.
Then I recalled all the hassle of having to unzip my bag and remove my ancient laptop for separate checking, Not to mention shuffling and shaking along the line as young, chicos and chicas tut-tutted at this old dear with Parkinson’s Disease who blocked their rush to the duty-free shops.
The bag-drop girl I had spoken to earlier spotted me in the check-in queue. Shaking her head at my defiance of her instructions, she left her desk and strode over. “Madam, you cannot get special assistance here. This is the bag-drop queue. I told you must go to the office I pointed out to you earlier.’’
I could feel myself falling apart and the girl sensed it too. Suddenly I felt her mood change from irritation to sympathy and realised she was not the impatient misery I had first taken her for.
She ushered me back towards the wheelchair office where, as luck would have it, the queue had vanished.
The next 10 minutes were an emotional time as I came to terms with old age. My frailty in such a trivial situation confirmed to me that senility and ill-health really were catching up with me and that my independence was under threat.
Over the previous few months I had been finding it increasingly difficult to handle the rigours of air travel. I didn't actually FEEL old at 69, but even without the limitations of Parkinson’s and angina, I was finding it a real struggle to carry hand luggage onto a plane - and certainly could not lift it into overhead racks. The problem increased dramatically when one threw in the limitations of a dicky heart and hands that shook like a 9.7 scale earthquake.
My ever-weakening emotions welled over into tears as I realised that the problems would only increase as I wing my way towards the final horizon.
Most of my flights these days are to visit my family in Manchester, where I had been finding the long walk to passport control impossible without resorting to my emergency angina-relief spray. Now, for the first time, I could forget about becoming a damsel in distress.
Ten minutes later I was being wheeled through a quiet area of the security department to the department gate, feeling cool and relaxed for the first time in a generation.
It didn't bother me that I was destined to be the last person off the plane in Manchester.
It is nearly two years since that dramatic day I first took advantage of what I now call the the 'squeals on wheels service' I've flown from Spain to the UK at least a dozen times since then and found every airline equally friendly and helpful when it comes to doddery old codgers like me.
With my increasing health problems, stress is the last thing I want. I'd like to shake the hand of every airport assistant and cabin crew member who has helped me - but my Parkinson's has now reached the stage where I'd probably miss!
Well, at least I've still got my sense of humour. Even if it does invariably mean being the very last passenger off the plane.
