I hate flying. I’m not scared. I’m nervous. Nervous of missing a flight. Nervous of forgetting my passport. Nervous of seeing hideous people in tank tops and shorts in December. Nervous of being nervous.
Perversely, I always get to the airport early. Typically flights are always late. More time to be nervous.
So I visit the XpresSpa and indulge in a neck massage or a foot massage or a manicure.
Last week I was extra nervous after seeing a woman remove her coat at the security check and stand there, wearing a bikini.
So I treated myself to a manicure and an extra pedicure.
But the flight was on time and there was not enough time for my toe nails to dry completely and I was offered disposable flip-flops.
It was not a pretty sight as I flipped and flopped to gate 74, laden with luggage.
Nowadays I carry everything on my shoulders, because I cannot bear to use my silver McQueen ribcage wheelie – nor will I buy anything less beautiful.
Passengers in smart shoes and sensible wheelies gave me pitying looks (“that poor bag lady without shoes…”).