6 Hours at the Airport.

Nothing can prepare you for old age as can a trip to the airport.

I had this brought home to me today after I'd agreed to see a friend off for an important audition in Manhatten. Long story short, there was some confusion over departure times - mostly on my part, though I still reserve some blame for aertel.ie - and I arrived at 8am: eight hours before his plane was due to leave.

Spending that many hours in a place that I have no business with is surreal. I'm not flying anywhere. There's no trade going on here, no mutual benefit - unless you count one coffee in eight hours (I don't). I'm clearly not going anywhere or meeting anyone. I'm just some guy in the airport. From eight until four.

In the psychology of dreams, airports are supposed to represent death. I totally agree. In my reality, today's adventure into inertia represented that stage of near-death: old age.

For an hour or two I strolled around reading signs and posters clearly designed for people too stupid to be allowed in anything as dangerous as an airport, let alone a flying machine. With absolutely no sense of achievement I learned all European cities and their capitols, the right way to wash my hands, and that a condom can prevent an STD. I have issues with the choice of venue for this level of education. If people didn't learn these things in school or on the street, what hope for them is there at the airport?

But I was in no position to comment on stupidity, because by hour three of my fuck up I was reading the 1994 By-Laws that govern aerodrome procedure. These laws are helpfully placed on nearly every wall for people to stop and read. I have no doubt that countless travelers have missed their flights because they were distracted en route to the terminal by the 1994 By-Laws that govern aerodrome procedure.

Remarkable the things people choose to put into law. It is prohibited (Article 8, if memory serves) to release large numbers of birds near an airplane, allow animals to graze freely on the lawns, and - my favorite - to offer information to someone without permission. And who was our Minister for Transport at the time to sign these into law? Our latest Taoiseach, Mr. Cowen.

And why forbid these things at all? As a city boy, I can't think of a more diverting way to pass the time waiting for a flight than observing sheep at their work. Or seeing large numbers of birds released from a wheelie bin and watching them fight their way out amongst the jet engines. Even trying to offer a lost tourist some information is apparently forbidden.

Right. So far on the 'How Old Are You' scale I've got meandering and reading notices that have absolutely no bearing on my existence. Next: Going to Mass.

I've been to Mass five or six times in my whole life. Today, I remembered why. Mass is boring. So boring in fact that afterward I committed my fourth act of old age: falling asleep face down in public, in the middle of the day, my hand still gripped around my coffee cup on the table, and after being awake for only four hours. Airports have powers of time travel this way. The Tardis was probably a converted airport.

Male menopause symptom No. 5 was talking to people who obviously wanted nothing to do with me. I attempted to strike up a conversation with an old Canadian couple from my well-grooved armchair in Starbucks. Apparently ''How are you?'' is none of my business. Pricks.

Frequently trips to the toilet (sometimes only to wash my hands, again), stealing newspapers, and clear dementia in the eyes of others - the evidence was piling up. 5% discounts suddenly applied, and I suddenly started caring about them.

Airports make you old, but only for the time you're there. It's fleeting. How do I know? On the bus home, I searched through my pockets for a free bus pass. I didn't have one.