“Is this your bag sir?”
Damn I forgot my contact lens solution.
Surely one bottle of contact lens solution didn't justify my whole bag being emptied, re x-Rayed and swabbed, but apparently it did.
I was now down to twenty minutes before take off, not a lot of time sure, but just enough.
All lost in the duty free shop.
I hate those airports where the duty free shop is clamped on to security so you have to go through it whether you want to or not, and then they wind a path through like a meandering river complete with oxbow lakes, a path that all passengers must take or risk being eaten by the Christian Dior crocodiles or the John Paul Gautier piranhas. I’d foolishly gone off piste. I thought I could defeat the system, take a short cut but anyone who’s tried to go against the arrows in Ikea will know that I should have known better. I was paying the price or my folly, I was in the Toblerone wilderness, discovering a whole new civilisation of strange M and M creatures. I heard them announce my name, threatening to offload my luggage. I was so close but still so far away. Each way I turned I was faced with walls of spirits or cigarettes. Sweat dripped off me, my bag seemed heavier, my feet were wading through some sticky stuff that turned out to be a spilled bottle of Malibu.