Coursework to their surroundings because of the devices

Coursework 2:

Descriptive writing

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Matthew Gallagher

 

The blinding sun glares over
the top of the airport, as it floods with travellers. An ocean of bodies flows
along a two-way current at the entrance, like water quickly running to its
destination. Occasionally, the odd group of tourists stops abruptly and causes
a small swell of people; travellers are forced to weave in and out of their
obstacles, like ants in tall grass. The conflicting aromas of fried, greasy
fast-food and the nutty smell of coffee diffuse out of the busy restaurants,
where travellers are patiently awaiting their holiday. I watch the lines of
indented metal steps of the escalator, I am descending on, disappear at the
bottom, as the gleaming glass paned walls filter in the blinding sunlight and
glistening on the polished, ochre brown marble. There is a rush of cool air,
filling the building with a sense of excitement, like opening a freezer on a
summer’s day, complementing the faint murmurs and buzzing of phones and
electronics. A smooth, calming but authoritative voice announces the arrival of
the main flight, symbolising the daily rush hour.

Finally, I have reached the
bottom. The crowded floor comes into full view as I briskly walk towards the
check-in counter, effortlessly pushing my jet-black, four-wheeled suitcase in
front of me. I advance swiftly, trying to avoid a flailing, wailing child over
a mother’s shoulder, a ragdoll like girl sprawled onto the floor and the groups
of rowdy teenagers, oblivious to their surroundings because of the devices
glued their faces. Conveniently, the queue is non-existent but as I reach the
tall, marble counter I see a sign reading, ‘Sorry for the inconvenience, we are
on a 15-minute break’. So, I sit down on the closest available seating next to
me. Looking around, the airport is like a large snow globe, minus the snow,
with shiny glass panes arching over the ceiling and white metal poles forming
triangles at the centre, like a crosshatched quilt. I admire the marble
fountain in the centre of the waiting lounge, where I can hear the gentle
trickling of the water, cascading gradually over the sides. I notice the small
potted plants placed neatly and lined at the front of the desk, whilst I listen
to the soft ambient songs playing from the nearby ceiling speaker. To my
satisfaction, I hear the pleasing sound of the chime of the desk bell; I am
called to check-in.

Heading towards the desk, my
serenity breaks by the irritating and impatient tapping of the check-in agent
on the counter, it is as if a woodpecker is behind the tall marble desk.
Fumbling for my passport, I get a glance at her red slick-back hair, tied up
tightly at the top of her head, where her gnawed pencil was conveniently
placed. Her skeletal fingers clamp over my passport, revealing her long, glazed
nails as she wrinkles up her cadaverous face, like old paper, frowning and
telling me that she also needs my plane ticket. Annoyed, I unzip my bag,
pulling out my ticket, she continues her tapping on the desk. She thanks me
with her yellow teethed grin as I award her my ticket and the stench of her
perfume invades my nostrils. Finally, I place my suitcase on the matte-black
belt as she begins her aggressive typing, not realising that the queue has
begun rapidly slithering up behind me. To my relief, she wraps my suitcase with
green tape and sends me on my way.

With just my bag on my
shoulders, I reach the immigration and customs. The black rope snakes around
like a curved labyrinth. Luckily, the line moves quickly, flowing like a river,
with multiple x-ray conveyor belts moving luggage and electronics forward.
Shortly, I am called for inspection. I remove my leather brown belt, large
black rucksack and chalky worn-out trainers and gently lay them on the grey
plastic trays, then proceed to the metal detectors, where people on either side
are reprimanded for forgetting the odd penny or paper clip in their pocket. The
shredded bits of plastic on the machine flap lightly as my items follow
through. From the other side, I observe the x-ray’s orange image, anxiously
outlining my belongings as the customs officer signals for me to retrieve them.
I snatch them quickly as they roll through on the luggage belt, relieved about
how easy the process was.

Finally, with the invasive
formalities of travel behind me, the anticipation of escape is finally allowed
to settle in. I am greeted once again with the aroma of nutty coffee as I enter
the boarding gate area. It is a theatre, people sitting on the metal framed
chairs facing the glass windows, which showcases the Airbus A380. The audience
clap and cheer loudly as the roar of the engine signals the start of their
journey. Children in front of me with their faces pressed against the glass pane,
admire the plane’s size and pilots, who begin to board as I pull out my phone
to take a picture of the plane. After taking the photo, I decide to block out
my surroundings with the blessing of earphones and wait for my turn to board.

862 words

 

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