WINTER TRAVEL FOR THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE

 

It is 5.30 a.m. and a freezing dark morning. I have acres of documents that must stay as hand-luggage. I now also have a Russian full-length overcoat, three layers of cardigans to fling off with the hot flushes, and a shawl that could double as a family hammock for half a tribe of Colombians. And a wheelie-bin case. And a handbag. And a hat and gloves.     The taxi bit went fine. So I'm early enough to be told I have to wait even longer because they have decided to cancel the flight. Desk lady is uncharming and tells me there was no demand for the 09.10. I contradict. I go through to x-ray. I take off the coat, the shawl, the three cardigans - for by now I am fuming hot. I put them through. And the case. And the handbag. They do no body-search. Obviously I am no longer attractive even to Rosa Klebb. This flusters me. I take my coat. My cardigans. My shawl. My case. I go. I find a seat, quite some way off. I take my paper. I read the paper. I attempt the crossword. I need a pen. I turn to the handbag which must be under the shawl. Or the cardigans.

    I go back to the x-ray where my cumbersome handbag, containing the pen, keys to house and bank vault, wallets of money, credit cards, tickets and passport and mobile phone and contact lens paraphernalia and spectacles and the manuscript of the book about female suicide bombers I have been asked to review, is sitting on the machine belt and no-one has bothered to isolate it yet.

    I sit, I read some more. Now it's loading time. Oh, no, it's not. The 09.10 was cancelled and the 10.30 is delayed. As I stand tutting at the monitor a middle-aged foreigner brings me my freshly–inscribed Lufthansa luggage labels and says accusingly, "I sink you haff lost it." "You should see me on a bad day," I tell him.

     A Chinese lady sees I am writing furiously and approaches. "Can you borrow me pen?" No, lady, I am using pen. Am doing very important calligraphy.

    A tall African in a slim-fitting camel coat strides past, wearing Rupert-the-Bear check trousers and smart shoes. The lining and hem of his coat are hanging down, dangling threads. I want to sew it for him. I suppose his need to be admired was stronger than his need to wait until the tailor had finished. He is able to look regal while frayed.

I fear I am not.