Mere seconds after I sent that last post, the bus stopped to let on a large number of obnoxious late-teenage boys, who sat in front of, next to, and behind me. I usually sit by the emergency exit, which has the great advantage of extra leg-room, but the disadvantage of being at the back of the bus and therefore popular with antisocial bastards. These particular antisocial bastards spent the rest of the journey "chatting" at about four thousand decibels, quaffing foul-smelling alcoholic beverages, and demonstrating their astonishing collection of really irritating laughs. Meanwhile, I let my jacket hang over the seatbelt's mechanism so that I could ever-more-desperately fiddle with the bloody thing while appearing nonchalant. To no avail. At Dublin Airport, I had to resort to clambering and contorting my way out of my seat while being loudly mocked by the surrounding wankers. Oh, joy.
Aer Lingus had insisted that passengers arrive for check-in at eleven-forty-five, but refused to allow us to check in until twelve-thirty. So I had to lug my suitcase around the dump that is Dublin Airport as I tried to get some breakfast. Negotiating your way through a cafeteria with a tray of food, a drink, a large suitcase, and a laptop bag is tricky, let me tell you. I should get a medal.
One of the first things to happen on the flight was that one of the stewardesses spilt orange juice on my lap. I was disappointed to discover that hundreds of pop videos and sit-coms, in which stewardesses' standard response to such accidents is to bend over and dab gently and erotically at the passenger's crotch while presenting their busts a couple of inches in front of his face, are lies. They did apologise a lot, though.
Apart from all that, the journey was fine.
I'm in Chicago, and it's great.