Last time I traveled, the airline lost my luggage. I’m half hoping they loose it again. My life didn’t end when it didn’t spin round the carousel. They returned it eventually, it had been on a journey all of its own.
I’ll never know where it went. I think it’s quite fun.
The not knowing. Another flight, next to someone else’s or sat in lost luggage with the other abandoned cases. I liked going into work the following day in old clothes and no make up. It felt really refreshing.
Liberating in a way. Yet when it returned, I felt 16
compelled to go back to the old way. I wish someone would take it all away again and let me be myself.
The business lounge is nice but I don’t belong here. I belong there, with everyone else. I’m no better. It’s like life, the more money you have, the more entitled you are to separate yourself from the lower classes. It must be so easy to get used to, the polite service, the free drinks, snacks, papers but what are you giving up for it? Morality? Ethics? Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s just me. I feel out of place. Society doesn’t want me in here. I ask too many questions. I see too much.
I am queuing for the gate. I am one of the last. I never really saw the need of pushing people out of the way and thrusting boarding cards into the steward’s face.
I’ll still be on the same plane when it leaves.
I can’t make up my mind whether or not I’m glad I’m going. Funny that.
There’s a stewardess with costume make-up on further up, handing out newspapers and a copies of a celebrity packed magazine. I may prematurely make use of the sick-bag. Mind you, isn’t that the trend?
It might help me get my arse into the seat.
My hand luggage consists of a decent book, a can of cheap hairspray and my wallet yet still I can’t manage to squeeze it into the overhead locker next to some fat bastard’s flight picnic.
I have a strong urge to get off. I’m amazed at the fact that I’m actually sat here and how composed I am. I can’t get off. Not only my belt is keeping me in this seat.
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