My alarms go off at 4:30 am, for an early check in at Auckland airport. It's surprisingly busy, even at 5:30. As I wait for check-in, a lady from Airport Security walks along the queue, offering plastic bags for people's gels, liquids etc.
"Do you need a plastic bag sir?" She has a notable Manchester accent.
I'm tired and trying to remember whether I have any toiletries in my hand luggage.
"No thanks. I'm ok." I reply, almost certain.
"Are you sure?" she challenges, with a grin.
"Er, yes. I'm pretty sure."
"You don't have anything in your hand luggage? No lipstick?"
"No, I don't use lipstick. I'm a natural beauty."
If she's unconvinced, she's kind enough not to say so.
"Here, have a bag anyway. They come in handy."
"OK. I always do what women tell me."
Somehow, the encounter ends up with her telling me I can use the bag as a prop for chatting up women (for example, a woman suddenly finds that she doesn't have her plastic bag - I step in, plastic bag in hand, and save the day). Even the woman in front of me in the queue joins in.
"Where were you when I needed advice like that at the school disco?" I lamented.
In spite of reminding me that I'm incapable of spotting romantic possibilities, even the obvious ones offered by a plastic bag, this encounter has cheered me up. I check in, pay the departure fee (which still irritates me) and proceed through to the security screening.
It's probably 20 minutes since my encounter with the Mancunian security guard but, as I approach the X-ray machine, there she is!
"Oh, hello again. So, did you get lucky while you were witing to check in?"
"Well I thought I had done, but then you cleared off."
As I empty my pockets into the plastic tray, we chat about where we're from, and she tells me about her friend who runs a fetish club in Leeds. Apparently the friend's mum thinks she runs a charity shop.
"Where is this fetish club?" I ask. "I need to meet your friend. Maybe I'll take the plastic bag with me." By this time, the people in front have gone through the metal detector, so our gas-bagging has to stop. She nods to her colleague through the other side saying "It's no problem - we're just chatting". We say our goodbyes, and I walk through the metal detection doorway.
The detector alarm goes off. The security bloke checks my belt and then waves his metal detector over me. My legs set off his alarm. He feels for ankle holsters and asks me to raise the legs of my jeans. His alarm goes off again. My socks start setting off his detector. For some reason, he’s not as curious about this as I am. He waves me through, and I contemplate burying my socks on a beach and watching the bemused faces of treasure hunters.
So I'm through the security stages, and am walking to the departure gate. There's a small knot of middle-aged oriental people walking just ahead. I've noticed in my travels that the far east seems to produce more than its share of noisy people, and this group is right up at the top of the scale. I initially think they're arguing, but as far as I can tell, they're just talking and trying to find the correct departure gate. Happily, they're flying to Brisbane too so I can be treated to their deafening chatting while we wait. I sit and marvel at their oblivion to the noise they're making. Even other oriental people seem to be tutting.
A very distinguished oriental man rises from his seat, a few feet away from mine, and starts walking away from the noisy group. In his late middle-age he looks educated and polite, and accustomed to civilised ways of behaviour. I decide he must be a professor or perhaps a judge. As he walks past me, expensively dressed and well manicured, he snorks up a huge ball of phlegm from somewhere inside his head. The glutinous bubbling noise is braggingly loud, and I'm startled. Much to my horror, I can tell a lot more than I want to know about the contents of his mouth. He walks to the bin, stands aristocratically over it and, as I look away, he drops the contents in. At least the splat is quiet.
It still isn't 7:00. This has been quite a start to the day.
Thankfully the rest of the day is uneventful and, by the time I go to bed that night, my ears have stopped ringing.
