TRAVEL TRIBES

The cheap-biscuit aroma of fake tan descends upon Gate 47b as Charlie, Molly and Dawn approach the rows of grubby blue upholstered seats. Thanks to Dawn’s squeaky Puma Fenty Fur Slides, Charlie’s jangly assortment of half-price Accessorize bangles and Molly’s rustling wicker beach bag, they sound much like a trio of travelling minstrels.

For Charlie, Molly and Dawn, Manchester Airport isn’t in Britain. It’s a sort of holiday purgatory, an antechamber to Magaluf, and the babes have been beach-ready since they boarded the number 43 bus that morning. The neon bikinis are on, barely concealed by kaftans and sheer floaty frocks, and all three have stoically traipsed flip-flops through the puddles this morning. But now they’ve finally arrived.

“Look, grab those loungers there, they’re right in the sun,” hisses Dawn, and rapidly claims a spot near the windows. Charlie flops down and slips her feet out of her flip-flops, sinking her toes into the faded grey carpet. Bliss, she thinks. But then she feels a chill in the air. Pushing her oversized sunglasses up on to her forehead and glaring upwards, she spies an air conditioner vent. “Hmm, there’s a bit of a breeze here,” she shudders.

Unperturbed, Molly unfurls her sarong and spreads it over the seat, before unpacking a Boots bag of three Meal Deals and arranging the collective spoils “tapasstyle” over the floral polyester. “I just love the Mediterranean diet,” she says, popping a stuffed olive into her mouth with studied insouciance. “It’s so varied, and you just get to pick at things, you know? It’s why Spanish women never get fat.”

“Charlie, will you do my back?” demands Dawn, thrusting a bottle of Soltan towards her friend. Charlie squints around the environs of Gate 47b. “Is there anywhere here we can get a piña colada?”