Every Summer Holiday.

Essay by dahardyboyzHigh School, 10th gradeA, May 2003

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Every summer holiday, when we go back home to England, it's always the same routine. We will arrive at Heathrow airport, and my mum will search for a pay phone. She will then call my grandfather, and make a conservative estimate of when we will arrive at his house. While she is making this all-important call, the rest of us will hunt out our baggage on the baggage claim. When this is finished, we will proceed to the information desk for whichever car rental company is the cheapest that year, and the assistant behind the desk will be away. My Dad will use the phone provided to call the rental headquarters, and they will tell us which bus to use, to get to the pick-up point. We will then traipse outside into the cold (freezing when arriving from Malaysia) and try and sort out which bus to get onto.

My Dad will walk one way along the row of buses, and I will be sent the other way. When one of us finds the bus, we will trot back to the trolleys, only to find that the rest of the family have gone back inside into the warmth. When the other has reached the end of the row, he will turn back. After we have met up with each other once again, we will board the bus. My brother and I will be told to help the driver load the bags onto the bus, but will arrive just too late.

After we get to the rent-a-car depot, we will always spend far longer getting the details worked out than expected. After the car has been checked over, we will discover another scratch on the bumper. We will report this to the man at the exit, and drive back to...