I flew to Barcelona today (8th May 2013) for the Spanish Grand Prix this weekend. Waiting for the shuttle bus to the airport, a fellow traveller struck up conversation. We ended up in the check in queue together, and he told me he was off on a business trip to Inverness. “Very nice”, I said. “What about you?”, he replied.
“Work or pleasure?”
“Pleasure. The Spanish Grand Prix”.
I suspect that the lure of lovely Inverness – and it is lovely – was less for the poor chap than that of a Grand Prix in sunny climes .
As is often the way, I was in the minority on the flight to a Grand Prix by not wearing a Formula One team outfit. On board, I was chatting to the chap beside me who works for Marussia, and who spoke in glowing terms about their two rookie drivers, Jules Bianchi & Max Chilton. However, our conversation was interrupted by chortles about the conversation behind us. It was hard to tell as we could not see the protagonists involved, them being behind us, but all of these comments appeared to be without any hint of irony.
“I went to Machu Pichu once. It was rubbish. It’s all in ruins”
“I gave up drinking at the beginning of the year.”
Colleague: “When did you start again?”
“2nd January ”
“I’ll have a wine”.
Cabin crew: “red, white, rose or sparkling? ”
“#$*# hell, how many types of wine are there?”
“Every time he has an egg salad, it all goes wrong…. Amazingly he’s never had a car accident”.
Colleague: “I suspect I’m the only one who wants to go to the Picasso museum”
“I like some of her stuff. ”
“did he paint the Mona Lisa?”
“That was Leonardo da Vinci”.
“Ah. Didn’t he do murals and stuff? A roof or something?”
“That was Michelangelo”
“Did he do buildings?”
“Are you thinking of Gaudi?”
“I love anchovies.”
“The Netherlands. Isn’t that in Holland?”
It kept us amused. I hope it was all in jest. I really do.