My purse is constantly weighted down with change. I list slightly to the right at all times because of the excessive strain my handbag puts on my shoulder. This is because I cannot handle holding up queues at the Tesco self-service machine by counting out the correct change. The tutting, foot stamping and impatient shifting-of-items-in-arms-to-signify-you-are-getting-tired-of-holding-them cause me to get flustered, embarrassed, and invariably leave at least two items of shopping behind in my haste to be gone from unfairly accusing glares. Thus, I faithfully feed £10 notes into the bowels of the machine for a 67p purchase, and spend the rest of the day waiting for my arm to pop out of its socket.
In a similar vain, it was with polite efficiency that I bagged my 25ml tube of Colgate and 50ml mascara wand for inspection at Stansted airport, removed my jacket and scarf and placed all electronic items securely in my hand-luggage, all in readiness for a speedy transition through to Departures. I comfortably joined in the ranks of silent admonition as people held up the lengthy queue by failing to have done any of the above despite seventeen-thousand written notices and tannoy announcements in every European language. I answered the security questions concisely, and with the demure, 'I Am Not A Terrorist' look everyone adopts at airport security, walked briskly through the metal detector toward WH Smith and half-price chocolate.
It was a rather sinking feeling that then accompanied the angry bleeping of the machine which roughly translates as 'Stop her! STOP HEEEERRRR!' I looked sheepishly at the friendly young pair manning the machine. The girl smiled and asked if I was wearing a bracelet. I dutifully removed all my jewellery, and turned to go back through the machine. 'Sorry Miss, I'm just going to have to give you a quick search first'. Are there any more embarrassing words to hear from a very pretty girl in front of fifty impatient travellers who just want to prove their deodorant isn't an incendiary device, goddammit? I grimaced. I raise my arms. I parted my legs ever so slightly. And instead of thinking, 'What if they think I'm actually a terrorist? What if she finds that little nugget of C4 I forgot I'd tucked into the waistline of my underwear this morning? WHAT IF THEY TAKE ME INTO A PRIVATE ROOM WHERE SOMEONE IS ALREADY WEARING LATEX GLOVES?', I thought, 'God, this girl is going to think I'm so fat'. When she reached the tights-waistband double-stomach area, the burden we British women must bear to sport a Nice Dress in the winter, I really wished I hadn't just eaten bread. As if by abstaining from a small amount of carbohydrates within the last hour would have naturally made me as lithe as this smiley lady. And whilst she was probably my age, I stopped being twenty-one and became instead the fifteen-year-old with a puppy-fat face and an inability to look pretty ladies in the eyes in case they, I don't know, faint in horror. I silently cursed the copy of 'How To Be A Woman' at the top of my handluggage, the emo-trainers and the man's plaid shirt I had thrown on with my Nice Dress for travel-pragmatism. She no doubt expected to find a small travel-surgery kit for performing emergency castrations with the message 'If Found, Please Return To The Nearest Militant Feminist'. But she did not, and sent me back through the machine with an almost-disappointed 'I can't believe that little bracelet made all that noise - I really thought I was going to find something else!'
And so, metal-free and released from my humiliation (the foot-tapping from the queue now so rhythmically in sync I expected a West Side Story style dance-off between travellers and security staff), I skipped back through the machine. BLEEPBLEEPBLEEPBLEEPBLEEP.
You have got to be kidding.
When the male announced that I would have to be searched again, I almost ran for the vague direction of London to live out a life as a poor street-performer named Arabella rather than be frisked in front of by-now around eighty people by a young man. 'Don't worry, the first time was for a reason, it's just a random search now' the smiley lady said. Oh, good. Now I just LOOK like a terrorist. Yet again, her slender little hands zipped around my mid-riff, and the voice of reason in my head which I normally like to keep quiet because she's a bit boring said 'Isn't it ridiculous that you're worried this woman thinks you could do with going to the gym, when she must frisk hundreds of women a day and does not care in the slightest where you carry your weight, as long as it's not also where you carry a detonator?' And the much louder voice which likes to make a drama out of everything said 'OH MY GOD? Do you know what? You are SO right, Miss Reasonable. This is NOT about body-shape, this is about aviation'.
A lesson I think we should all apply to every aspect of our lives. Regardless of whether or not wings are involved. I bet that lovely girl would have been horrified to know I'd been expecting her to have uncharitable thoughts about my waistline. And I bet she would have been delighted if I'd offered her some of the 'share bar' of Galaxy I did purchase in WH Smith. But I ate it.
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