{"id":1102,"date":"2012-01-07T23:45:04","date_gmt":"2012-01-07T22:45:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.katebailward.com\/drivinglikeamaniac\/?p=1102"},"modified":"2012-04-28T15:31:59","modified_gmt":"2012-04-28T13:31:59","slug":"1102","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.katebailward.com\/drivinglikeamaniac\/2012\/01\/1102\/","title":{"rendered":"Packing wire"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>I should have known things weren’t going to go smoothly when I arrived at Heathrow on 23 December and it took two hours for our luggage to be unloaded from the plane. I’d had qualms about checking bags in with Alitalia (just google ‘Alitalia luggage’ and you should find plenty of reasons why), but in the event couldn’t get round it because of the Christmas presents I’d bought. \u00a0What’s the worst that could happen, though …?<\/p>\n

To be fair, I don’t think the blame can be laid entirely at Alitalia’s door on this occasion.\u00a0When we arrive in the baggage hall at T4 (no, not Terminator; Terminal), Heathrow is in pre-Christmas chaos. Abandoned luggage is piled high at every turn and there is no sign of ours appearing. \u00a0I’m all set to leave my suitcase and get it delivered to me another day, but the Italians are made of sterner stuff and are busy creating merry hell at the Alitalia desk.<\/p>\n

While the Italians are bellowing, I have a quiet word with one of the ground staff about what is going on. I discover that if planes don\u2019t have to turn straight round and fly somewhere else (as ours doesn\u2019t) they are considered low priority. They are therefore unlikely to be unloaded until the following day, when the new baggage staff come on duty. \u00a0Luckily for me, however, Italians can all shout and gesticulate for – well – Italy. They aren’t going anywhere until they’ve had a good old row about it. At one point, it even looks as if it’s about to turn into a fight. \u00a0Thrilling!<\/p>\n

The staff at the desk make frantic phone calls. A member of the airport police arrives to defuse the situation. He puffs his chest out and moves people back six inches. \u00a0Using his best Very Important Voice, he makes an announcement: \u201cYour luggage will be in the hall in 15 minutes!” \u00a0Somebody – it *might* have been me, but I couldn’t *possibly* confirm – shouts, “Is that a promise?!” \u00a0There are titters from the other English-speakers. \u00a0He rises above it and ignores the heckling, merely gesturing in the direction of the conveyor belt. Sceptically we look and see that, far from there being a 15 minute wait, luggage is arriving now. Hooray! We stampede towards our bags and out into the freezing cold sleet of a late-December night in London. \u00a0Home at last.<\/p>\n

Fast-forward three weeks, and I’m on my way back from England to Italy. Due to some serious shopping, there’s no way I can travel carry-on only, so once again I reluctantly check my luggage in. \u00a0Being a good girl, I’ve followed airline guidelines and put my laptop and handbag into my hand luggage, which is regulation size. \u00a0I’ve also packed a couple of pairs of shoes and most of my new books in there, so it’s h.e.a.v.y.<\/p>\n

When I first flew out to Italy, the guy at check-in weighed my bags, lost his eyebrows into his hairline at how heavy they were, but let me take them on board anyway. However the po-faced woman at the desk this time isn’t having any of it. \u00a0I therefore transfer the shoes and books into my checked bag. \u00a0She reweighs my hand luggage. It\u2019s still far too heavy. \u00a0With barely-concealed disdain she looks at the contents of my little suitcase. Waving an imperious finger she tells me that I\u2019ll have to carry my handbag and laptop separately. \u00a0Christ. If I’d known that was allowed I’d have done it anyway. \u00a0It’s a brand new Mac and I need no excuse to cradle it to my bosom.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Clutching my laptop and hauling my now rather lighter carry-on bag I head for Security, anticipating all sorts of faffery. \u00a0In this, I am not disappointed. \u00a0There is, of course, the usual plastic bag farce. \u00a0I’m prepared for this, and have already extricated my make-up bag from the tangle of cables in my suitcase. \u00a0However, unlike when I first flew to Italy from Terminal 2, when the nice lady at Security had a good old chat with my mum and me while she decanted all my make-up into the plastic bag for me, the chap at Terminal 4 just shoves a bag in my direction and points me to the side while I sort myself out. \u00a0I spend the next ten minutes juggling laptop, handbag and suitcase while giving him death stares.<\/p>\n

Given Gordon’s blustering about the immediate installation of X-ray scanners<\/a>, I’d half expected to see them here. \u00a0However, it seems it’s still just the standard metal detectors. \u00a0We have to remove our shoes and every single layer of outer clothing, though, so the queue is moving tooth-grindingly slowly. \u00a0I’m sweltering, having dressed in about 100 layers when I\u2019d left home in the snow that morning. \u00a0Every time I think about taking my coat off and shoving it in my bag, though, the queue moves forward and I’m left desperately trying to rezip and pick up everything\u00a0that I’ve just dropped\u00a0while kicking my suitcase along in front of me. I give it up as a bad job, and continue to sweat.<\/p>\n

When I reach the front of the queue I remove my shoes, remembering just too late that I’m wearing stupid, garish socks. \u00a0Damn. \u00a0I shuffle through the metal detector. \u00a0It beeps. \u00a0A serious-looking woman beckons me over and asks what I think might have caused it. I assume it’s my belt, so remove it. \u00a0She suggests that it could have been my necklace, which I’d forgotten about. \u00a0I shrug and smile. \u00a0She glares at me. \u00a0Oops. \u00a0She gestures that I should assume the position, and pats me down almost indecently thoroughly. \u00a0Thank goodness she’s wearing gloves, as the sweat patches under my arms are, by this stage, less patches and more rivers. \u00a0The Italians would be scandalised. \u00a0Not finding anything obviously bomb-like, she scowls and fetches the mobile metal detector, which she proceeds to run over me. \u00a0Sure enough, my necklace sets it off, as do the rivets on my jeans. \u00a0She runs it down my right hand side. It beeps. \u00a0There is a moment of confusion. Then I realise what has caused it and burst into laughter. \u00a0“It’s my bra! \u00a0It’s the underwire in my bra!” She gives me a death stare to beat all death stares. \u00a0I can’t stop laughing, though. \u00a0\u00a0I continue giggling helplessly as she pats me down yet more thoroughly. \u00a0Security lady is, like Queen Victoria, unamused.\u00a0I, however, chortle all the way to the boarding gate.<\/p>\n

Note: This was originally a pair<\/a> of posts<\/a> published in January 2010. I’ve got better at packing since then, but security staff are still just as grumpy.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Images:
\nRo_buk [but I’m not there]
\n<\/a>Matt Hintsa<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/div>