Has anybody else got nine suitcases in the roof space, none of which are the right dimensions to fulfil the new criteria proposed by the International Air Transport Association (IATA) for cabin baggage?
The new specification for the carry-on case to be stowed in the overhead locker is one centimetre shorter, 10cms narrower and 5cms shallower than that currently permitted. More expense.
I don’t know about your travelling habits, but I take frequent five-day trips across the water and, by the time I’ve packed the basic cosmetic necessities, there’s just about room for a phone-charger and a packet of paper hankies. Do they expect me to last five days in what I stand up in?
There’s no such thing as a budget airline. What’s the use of a cheap ticket when you’re being royally ripped off for having the temerity to need clothes for your stay? And what’s a woman to do without the right shoes and handbags? ‘Capsule wardrobe’ my eye! Travelling with one pair of trousers and a couple of wee tops is the best possible insurance that you’ll spill your in-flight coffee in your lap and then where are you? There’s nothing so depressing as a hotel room draped nightly like a Neapolitan slum in drying smalls.
Gawd, I hate airports. Carrying your face in a plastic bag of insufficient size to hold the half of it; the mortal sin of forgetting your lipstick’s still in your handbag and smile-free security testing it in case it’s Semtex and then setting off the beeper with your replacement hip-joints.
Despite designated seating, queues form long before the flight desk opens. When I say ‘queues’ I don’t mean orderly single file, but amorphous clumps of people. Any singletons are invariably keeping places for the rest of their extended family off having a snack, who’ll magically manifest themselves the minute the boarding is called and nip in ahead of you to rush like Gadarene swine across the tarmac, cutting you off at the ankles with their wheelie-cases in order to get first dibs on the overhead lockers.
Ah yes – overhead lockers. I’d like to punch people who put cases in sideways, then ram their coats and duty-free booty alongside with total disregard for other passengers needs. I’d like to punch people who spend the flight leaping up and down to retrieve stuff from their case, causing repeated risk of brain injury to the passenger seated underneath, who is me, sitting with my eyes shut, sipping a palpitation-calming gin and reciting the prayers of childhood.
The trouble with ‘hold’ luggage (apart from its weight, unwieldiness and the extortionate fee demanded for its carriage) is the delay between landing and the baggage carousel cranking into life. It’s like waiting for Godot, worrying that your entire wardrobe has been diverted to Schipol. Suddenly, with an arthritic groan it grinds into gear and the conveyor belt starts moving. This is your penalty for checking it in anxiously early, (first case in, last one out.) Eventually you spot it sailing by and have to fling yourself upon it like a prop forward on a rugby ball. It has not been tenderly treated. There were footprints on mine on the return flight from New York. The disadvantage of being burdened with large luggage is negotiating stairs and escalators. For this you need a man. In the absence of one of your own, any man will do. I find that adopting an air of vague helplessness inspires the Sir Galahad in the most unlikely candidates. Chivalry is not dead.
The only way to travel is first class with a pyramid of Louis Vuitton luggage, a matching flunkey, a cashmere pashmina and a large pair of sunglasses. (Memo to self – do the lottery this weekend.) Failing a big win, that’ll be me at the airport, going through security like Dick Whittington with a spotted bundle on a stick.
Yet despair not. For us short-haul, cattle-class passengers a single ray of hope pierces the gloomy skies. I’ve just discovered that Easyjet and Ryanair AREN’T members of IATA.
