Given its proximity to my Colchester abode, London Stanstead is my plane station (calling them airports just seems so drab) of choice. It is, in every sense, a hell hole. The third busiest airport in the UK it may be, but Stanstead does a good job of resembling a dysfunctional sheep's pen.
Dead-eyed security wardens shepherd travellers into an uncoordinated, never ending drove; lager-sodden Ryanair hoards jetsetting it to Alicante pass voluble judgement on less loutish explorers; while air-conditioning is only a daydream in this perspiring people-coup of adventureless air travel (there's no transatlantic flights, hence the perceived lack of adventure).
As a child I used to find just the thought of an airport a thrill. A congregation of people gearing up to take flight to unexplored destinations was wholly ambitious and aspirational. But Stanstead has killed that. It has no joy within its monochromatic casing; no goose-flesh to its practical but wholly prosaic skin. London Stanstead is the embodiment of a modern airport. A place to get from A to B. Maybe I'm wrong to expect something more.
***Incidentally, I was in Colchester last weekend. Here's some pictures I took while I was there. My white balance was unknowingly set to fluorescent, so there's a slight blue tinge to my pictures. I've tried to touch them up in Photoshop but I'm afraid there' not much I can do to cover up such a rookie faux pas!