Romulus 2018

my boarding pass and my completed entry form. Both were still in there. It’s all there, I told myself.
It’s all streamlined...
10 minutes. Tick tock.
My stomach sank lower and lower. I recalled my first ever flight experience and the number of paper
bags I went through at landing. Years have gone past and the feeling of nausea has waned, but it still
wasn’t comfortable. Focus. Don’t forget the mission. I need to focus.
0 minutes.
‘Zero Hour’
David Yuxin Wang
Landed. Passengers stood up to retrieve their carry-ons from their overhead cabins as the seat belt
sign disengaged. Unbuckled, my duffel held tightly in my lap, I could feel a build-up of cold moisture
in my palms. I restarted my mobile phone and double-checked the clock. It was about time... Ready...
Go! Reset. 15 minutes. Tick tock!
Heathrow is overwhelming, and 15 minutes is just an arbitrary number - sufficiently short to be
physically possible and to get the job done. As swiftly and naturally as I could, I navigated past
unsuspecting travellers moving at their own leisurely pace. Speed was what I needed, but there
certainly was no need to make a scene. Passport - check. Wallet - check. Mobile phone - check. I was
only meters away. Meters.
1 minute. Tick tock.
The seatbelt sign above my head lit up and instantly, a dose of adrenaline wriggled through my tiresome
form.
47 minutes. Tick tock.
It took a few seconds for me to clear my head. Cautiously, I peered over my neighbour, who was still
sound asleep, and glanced through the window. Clusters of bright lights dotted across the darkness
of night, tracing each and every human activity within metropolitan London. Whilst inspecting my
watch, I suddenly noticed I was still eight hours ahead. Damn, I should have turned the clock back
earlier. Carefully, I corrected the time to GMT and took a deep breath.
38 minutes. Tick tock.
This isn’t the first time, I reminded myself. All I needed from this moment onwards was a sharp mind.
This should be nothing new, but I could feel my nerves creeping up. Amidst bouts of attempts to slow
my breathing and heart rate, I began to map out the plan. There is nothing difficult. Everything is
under control. Everything will be okay.
23 minutes. Tick tock.
Everything had been packed and organised in the right places. Habitually, I slipped my hand into
my inner jacket pocket and fumbled my passport. Having obtained my first passport at age six, this
was my third issue. The adrenaline overdrive unwound slightly when my fingers sensed that familiar,
rough texture of my passport cover. Slotted between its cover and my ID page, I traced the edges of
Bad news. People. Lines of people. There must have been a couple of other flights landing at around
the same time. Two, four, six, eight, ten... Too many people. Impatiently, I stood in line. This wasn’t part
of the plan. Streamlined, remember? I needed a Plan B.
Minus 46 minutes. Teeeee-k tooooo-k.
45 minutes have passed. Waves and waves of travellers waving British and EU passports have glided
past as I moved a total of six spaces down the line. Two, four, six... Never mind. What was the point
of counting? I should have known this was mission impossible. Why did I place hope onto something
that would only promise disappointment?
There was never going to be a Plan B.
As I glanced across at the two poker-faced UKBA officers sitting under a glaring sign that read ‘All
Passports’, scrutinising and questioning each and every international traveller ahead of me, I let out
a long sigh of defeat. The plan didn’t matter; nor did its execution. I was never going to be any faster
than what the bureaucratic system demanded me to be. Stuck at the border, I, a foreigner, finally let
down my guard and allowed my mind to drift.
Minus 65 minutes. Tick tock.
It was Saturday night. If I made it back before 2 am, a couple of beers in the Wolfson bar would make
my life a bit better. If and only if.
Tick tock…
20 21