The wet traveller


After telling you about my failure to travel well, I neglected to realise that I would indeed need to eventually travel home again. The process had failed to gain ease and I had failed to work on the issues that plagued me following my trip across the country.

The issues on the way home were somewhat smaller, however still rather difficult to deal with.

Problems began when I attempted to get through security.

Regardless of what items I ditched, I kept setting off the alarm. Eventually I decided I should confess. I leaned in towards the very female, same-sex-attracted-looking security guard and explained that I was fitted with a metallic cold weather indicator assistance device. Also known as a nipple bar. This made the very female same-sex-attracted-looking security guard to smile. Smile, with the slight look of joy that I imagine I get when I realise that there’s a tripping hazard in the supermarket. It’s the joy that comes from knowing that you might be about to witness something spectacular.

She inquired as to the size and shape of the bar, and I told her. Unfortunately, I tend to speak with my hands a fair bit, and saw fit to hold either end of the bar between my fingers, thus indicating to her the exact length of the bar.

She smiled a little more, expressed her surprise that such an item would trigger the system, and waved me through.

The alarms went off again, but she said it was ok.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and felt it: the bracelet my beloved had given me, which I took off so that it wouldn’t set off the alarm, and promptly shoved into my pockets. Clever, huh.

But wait for it!

I came up with a very clever way to avoid paying the stupid prices for drinks while in flight. I bought a carbonated, black beverage and saved it for the flight. The trolley had come around twice and I laughed smugly as my seatmate selected drink after drink. I settled back in my seat, and twisted the lid.


Coke was everywhere. My face. My hair. My pants. My shirt. Pooled in my lap. Dripping down the bottle, which I was still clutching. Running down my leg and into my shoe. I did what anyone would do: I swore. However, the earphones that were connected to the screen I was watching caused me to misjudge my volume, so my cry of “Oh, shit!” was somewhat louder than intended.

My seatmate offered me his serviette. This was akin to using a bandaid to plug a gunshot wound. I found some tissues in my bag in various stages of being used, and mopped up to the best of my ability. I momentarily considered sucking the drink out of my shirt, but we still had several hours of flight to complete and I didn’t want my seatmate to think he was sitting near some kind of weirdo.

I was sticky, wet, thirsty and sulking.

Surely, I am not the only person in the world who travels so badly?



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