What is it about departure lounges that make them the most angst ridden, stress inducing locations you will ever have the misfortune of finding yourself in?

I’ll tell you. It’s because Brits have the patience of a swarm of gnats when it comes to boarding aeroplanes. I must clarify here that I am referring, in the main, to the low-cost flight, which seemed such a good idea at the time but comes at a price – your sanity.

It’s an anomaly in a nation obsessed with unspoken rules of queuing for almost every other aspect of our lives. Indeed, we embrace the queue – it’s the one time you might hear us vocalise our annoyance if some daring punter tries his luck at pushing in. Put us in a departure lounge however, and all known etiquette is blown right out of the water. Even the pensioners become like a rabid pack of wolves on heat trying to race to the front of the departure gate, much to the visible fear of the air stewards, and it’s all so BLOODY INFURIATING!

Why? Because it is impossible not to become embroiled in the veritable stress fest yourself. Every time I reach that dreaded door I collect myself and think, ‘right girl, deep breath, this time just stay calm…you can rise above it’, etc. Then, feeling relieved to have found a seat, I of course make the inevitable mistake of looking up from my reading material, (which I can’t really concentrate on anyway for the perpetual fear running through me of missing an announcement about the departure gate being changed) to find a swarm of menacingly roving eyes getting ready to pounce on the first dare devil to make the slightest movement towards the gate. And as soon as they do utter carnage ensues.

Cue ruthless mob of charging skinheads being mowed down by a troop of middle-aged women using their hand baggage as battering rams. The hen party in matching pink cowboy hats and hot pants go in for the kill only to be restrained by one half of a Burberry clad couple with matching buggy, as the middle-class couple look on in horror and lament their decision to save a few bob on a cheap flight. I hate myself for doing it, but of course I join in, barging a few teenagers out of my path to secure my place in line. And all for the privilege of standing for about 40 minutes before having first dibs on where you sit on the plane. Because it’s so bloody important!

I blame Easy Jet for subjecting us to this wrath of mental anxiety and often physical pain. I mean, how easy would it be to just GIVE US SEAT NUMBERS?!