Security

The kids and I have recently returned from a visit to Grans house. Nothing unusual about that you might think, but this particular Gran resides on the Isle of Lewis. For those whose geography is as good as mine, that's an island off the left side of Scotland. Of course, you could drive up and take the ferry if you were either travelling alone or barking mad, but we find it easier and happier to fly. For reasons I do not entirely understand, this involves two flights, one to Edinburgh or Glasgow and then another flight onto Stornoway. For sheer practicality and preservation of sanity, I only ever take one case. Everything for me and the children simply must fit into one suitcase and really it is surprising how there always seems to be just a little more room for those last minute essentials; toothpaste, toothbrushes, day cream and a selection of lipsticks to match every possible outfit.
One bag of hand luggage and we were ready for the off! But no. The children appeared at the car clutching all manner of soft toys, blankets and quality freebies from McDonalds. Hmmm. Paddy at the car, or paddy at the airport? We really had to go so we chose airport. Luckily the distraction of the airport and the excitement of the ensuing adventure meant they didn't notice they had left half their stuff in the car.
After checking about a hundred times that I had brought my hideous photo ID and all the required documentation we went to check in. At this point I always worry that something will be wrong. I don't know what it could be, maybe we had only booked one child onto the flight, or maybe there were new rules like you couldn't board the plane carrying a large cuddly dog. Whatever, I only relax, (yeah, right), when I am holding our boarding cards. We bid farewell to the case, fervently hoping to be reunited in Stornoway. After a tearful goodbye to Dad, we headed to security. Having done the flying thing a few times, I headed somewhat smugly toward the conveyer belt and beepers, observing with a degree of sympathy those virgin travellers rummaging frantically in ther bags for any liquids and trying to get them to fit into the stupidly small plastic bags they so kindly give you at airports.
I put my bag on the conveyer, grabbing one tray for our coats and a second for the security blankets, (Bobbas), and cuddly dog. We all found the sight of a floppy toy dog over hanging the tray heading for the x-ray machine quite funny. Judging by the lack of amusement on the faces of security staff, they did not.
Not surprisingly, the sight of three or four uniformed unsmiling grown ups is not a helpful inducement when trying to get ones children to walk through the beeper. However, after a friendly nudge, they were soon through and free to wander about aimlessly whilst waiting for me. I always beep the beepers. Always. I have taken to just walking through and holding my arms up, legs wide ready to be searched. Because of this and also because of my peverse sense of humour, I was wearing a pair of trousers with as many metal buckles and bits as I could find. I genuinely forgot my hair clip was metal.
Some little time later we emerged on the other side and as always headed straight for the monitors in the vain hope that our gate number would be displayed. Instructed to 'Wait in Lounge' we rebelled by first going off to the loo, then grabbing some of the worlds most expensive sandwiches and smoothies. (And, as an aside, why when presented with a range of liquid refreshment, do the children pick the most expensive? And then of course despite assurances to the contrary, refuse to drink it.)
We settled on the floor of the 'lounge' in a corner which afforded us, well, the boy, a view of aeroplanes and airport activity. I think it was at the point where I was almost forcing my daughter to drink the over priced smoothie when offspring number two announced, "I haven't got Bobba."
I laughed because clearly this was impossible. So impossible in fact that I searched the area around us repeatedly hoping that somehow I had neglected to spot an off-white, slightly smelly muslin square. Still in denial, I searched my bag, knowing myself and knowing that I could quite easily have put it in there without knowing I was doing it. No. White Label Bobba was not there. I must appear as scatter brained as I can increasingly be, because when I went back to security and asked if they had found a smelly whitish blanket thing, the man said they had not, but had I checked my bag?
Disaster!! Still, I thought, muslin squares are an essential baby item, there is a Boots, surely there we will find brother of Bobba. No. They sell ridiculously large, (expensive) cups and beakers, almost a whole range of baby food and assorted acessories, but not muslin squares.
The toilets! I hear you cry, did you leave it in the loos? Well if we did, someone got there first. Bobba simply disappeared. In the end I got so desparate I was even looking in the bins.
It was time to go to the gate. Amazing how time flies when you have lost your sons only security blanket. Boarding the plane was my saviour! He was so excited about the flight that all thoughts of Bobba were temporarily suspended.
He still occasionally asks about him and we wonder were Bobba is now. Did he board a plane that day? Did he seize the chance to travel to some exotic clime?
Sadly we will never know. I do know however that the next time we fly, that little bit of room left in the case will be reserved for extra muslin squares.