Form filled, eyeball photo and fingerprints recorded for posterity, I was reluctantly passed and went off to the carousel to find H.
“I hope they haven’t lost my suitcase.” Her stance reeked of fatalistic control freak, her lipstick narrowed to a perfunctory underline.
“Course they won’t have,” I soothed.
We waited…
“I hope they haven’t lost my suitcase.”
“It’ll be round in minute.”
We waited…
“I can’t see my suitcase.”
“Look – There’s mine.” I pulled my case off the carousel and deposited it beside me guiltily, the euphoric mist in my head rapidly clearing.
We waited…
The crowd of Brits thinned to an impatient herd.
We waited…
The herd of Brits dispersed.
We waited…
The same tatty specimens of luggage meandered past like lost children on an abandoned fairground ride as the last Brit but us vanished.
We waited…
“I don’t believe it, they’ve lost my ******* suitcase.”
H was puese and I was overcome by a craving for nicotine.