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Thankfully it goes ok this time and you make the inevitable raised eyebrows look at being 3kg under: ‘More room to buy stuff out there then’ you smile at the airline worker with a *wink wink* and a *nudge nudge*, she smiles politely but in reality she thinks you’re a moron; it’s the third time that she’s heard that joke this morning and she only started 45 minutes ago (later on she drowns her sorrows in the third ‘liquid lunch’ of the week and vows to follow her dream of being a school teacher).
You make your way over to the security gates, your overpriced travel bottles of ablutions have leaked in their clear, plastic bag making it look like you’re carrying 3 empty bottles in a sea of green and white gunk for the week. You put your hand luggage on the belt, your green goo in the next tray and your belt, glasses, jewellery, shoes, heck your tempted to even take your wire bra off too…anything to avoid setting the metal detector off. You try to adopt an air of confidence when the moody looking ‘frisker’ calls you through but for a split second this slips and you adopt a face riddled with guilt; you might as well be holding a sign up that says ‘I’ve got drugs hidden up my bum’.
You set the alarm off. You can’t figure out why. You’re practically standing there in your knickers having sacrificed dignity for the sake of placing everything you own in the trays and yet you still get stopped! It’s your phone you dweeb! You left it in your pocket. How could you be so daft!? You mentally scold yourself whilst the forceful ‘frisker’ checks for a third time that you have nothing metal near your arse.
You’re free to go. You need refreshment ASAP after that ordeal so you head to the nearest establishment and indulge in a few chardonnays to calm yourself before the actual flight. You sacrifice food for yet another vino because the food will just make you feel sick anyway and by the time you leave ‘Paddy’s Irish Bar’ having made best friends with the barman, and promising to visit him next time you’re at the airport, you’re a little fuzzy in the head and your nerves have been replaced with a delirious need to sleep.
You stumble to the boarding gate. Your plane doesn’t board for another 35 minutes but the Roy Keano’s (a British family with two screaming toddlers and an older Italian couple) are already queueing, shuffling around impatiently to be allowed to sit on the plane before anybody else. You find a seat in the waiting area, the initial comfort gained from your boozy breakfast is very quickly changing to the realisation that you’ll be getting on a plane very soon and what’s worse is that you’ll be drunk and emotional too.
You realise that skipping food was a silly idea and that an out of date chocolate bar from the nearest vending machine will have to suffice. Your gate opens and you start to queue, the air steward checks your passport twice to make sure that you’re the same goth, looking weirdo from your passport photo taken at a very grungey period of your adolescence. You get ushered through suspiciously and your journey begins…
Hello and welcome to This Ruth Is On Fire, a UK blog which is a haven for random thoughts and sarcastic observations.
I'm also into books, clothes and visiting places too.
