Ten minutes earlier I was making my way through security screening. Laptop separated. Liquids in a translucent bag. Everything should be in order, or so I thought.
“This is more than 100ml. We are confiscating it.” - What? No, it’s 50ml tops. See?
“This is more than 100ml. We are confiscating it.” - Yes, I see the confusion here. The container is labelled 200ml, but as you can see it’s barely a quarter full. Quite obvious.
“Speak to my supervisor.” She puts my belongings through the scanner, including the controversial liquid. Through the metal detector I went unhindered. At the other end was the ranking supervisor.
“This is more than 100ml. We are confiscating it.” - But, it’s medication!
“This is more than 100ml. We are confiscating it.”
I would not normally be so precious about 50ml of anything. But for the last few days I have been particularly wretched, the highlight of which is the sensation that my throat is made out of razor blades. Each swallow produces the feeling of a fresh incision by my throat-blade. Despite being on the maximum dosage of both aspirin and paracetamol, the only way I am getting even a few hours of sleep at night is to take a good old dose of codeine linctus.
Now you know it must be serious when you’re reaching for the opiates - this is the category of drug they give to people who are dying. It’s what doctors mean when they say they have made somebody ‘comfortable’. But the problem is, I was travelling to Ireland. And trying to get a hold of codeine in Ireland is harder than finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. So I was not about to part with my 50ml - and with it the chance of a few hours sleep over the coming days.
“Can I go back out and put it in a smaller container?” I inquired.
This caused something of a kerfuffle. You could see she wanted to retort “computer says no”, but after some deliberation she returned to me. “This man will escort you outside”.
“Can I come back?” He gave me a look, did not answer, and grabbed my arm.
Outside the security screening area I found Boots. These guys don’t miss a trick. I imagined I was going to have to purchase the cheapest store-brand aftershave and pour it in the bin to obtain a new receptacle, but the enterprising chemist chain were selling empty 100ml containers right there for the princely sum of £1.35. It looked like something straight out of a 19th century Victorian Chemist’s shop, if it were made of glass. But it was plastic. Still, had the desired effect.
And that is how I came to find myself re-enacting Breaking Bad in the middle of the security screening area to the worry of my fellow passengers at 06.30 in the morning in Heathrow Terminal 1, two days before Christmas.
Of course my boarding pass didn’t work the second time around. It raised some sort of alarm and hilarity ensued. I explained myself to a nice lady who took my photo and bade me a safe flight.
“Can I just ask,” I was going to get my money’s worth here, “this sort of carry-on, does it not bring the whole security screening process in to disrepute? I mean, how are people supposed to take any of it seriously?”
“I feel your frustration - I know it’s really inconvenient. We’re as frustrated as you are, but our hands are tied by Department for Transport rules I’m afraid.” At which point I felt bad for having given her a hard time - it wasn’t her fault really. If the first two automatons had said something like this earlier it would have made the whole episode much easier to swallow (no pun intended).
Somehow I had managed to purchase my seat in Club Class. I had no idea what that meant. I soon learned this meant I had access to the BA lounge. What a wonderful little perk, it saved me the bother of queuing up at Costa for a coffee, and mercifully spared me the the gauntlet of WH Smith to find a newspaper as the staff prod you with multi-packs of oversized Toblerone.
The seat itself looked a bit shiny. Perhaps it had been given a fresh coat of varnish – they really do think of everything in Club Class. But no, not varnish, I discovered after putting my hand on it. Something sticky, and now my hand was adhesive.
I called a stewardess and explained the situation, asking if they had anything with which to clean my seat – some alcohol wipes perhaps? They don’t keep much by way of cleaning products she advised (perhaps having been confiscated by security), but she’d see what she could do. At this stage I realized I had caused something of a scene as passengers were still trying to board the plane and I was blocking the narrow passageway by standing in the middle not taking my sticky seat.
Excellent time to wash said stickiness from my mitts.
I asked the very cute male steward if I might use the bathroom, he got the situation and ushered me in. I lathered my hands in soap and hit the tap to wash it all off … but all I got was were drips. Little tiny raindrops, I would have had more luck dribbling on to my hands from the corner of my mouth.
So I washed my hands with mineral water and returned to my seat. At this stage the stewardess was in full swing wiping it down with napkins and … is that … 50ml of Mr. Smirnoff’s finest … from the … minibar? Being used as a cleaning agent?
When she was done I took my newly clean throne in club class, surrounded by the sweet aroma of that delicious nectar of the gods – vodka.
