I’m having one of those days. I thought being stranded at George Best airport in Belfast City was bad, but now the entire post I typed up painstakingly with one thumb on my phone while holding a sleeping Tot in my lap just went ‘poof’! (Or whatever the iPhone equivalent of that is. I imagine it’s ‘Zunwanwu’)
Why am I stranded? Security. After enjoying a very private frisk courtesy of Her Majesty’s Border guards on my way out due to pins in my hair, I then had to face the slowest, most unhelpful security in Belfast ever on my way back. Between dismantling every single component of Tot’s buggy and tasting every single item of his food, sniffing his diaper for goodness-knows-what, there was no way I was going to make my flight.
Before you judge me on African Time, I woke 3.10am, left 4.12 for an hour long drive, got to the airport at 5am for a 6.40am flight. So you see? Not my fault. I had to feed the boy too as they wouldn’t have let me take his food through security. In hindsight since they still had us rip open and taste all the smaller pots, maybe I should have just dumped it all and let Tot starve. He wouldn’t have died anyway.
It’s still very annoying though. We even had BMI staff try to hold the flight, come down to security, speak to the officers to try and speed things up, for where? The pieces of the stroller went in…out…in…rotated…scrutinised…argh! The worst bit was I couldn’t even make the ‘Why are you searching me like that? Have you ever met a Nigerian suicide bomber?’ joke. DAMN YOU ABDULMUTALLAB! Burn!!!!
So, since Hubs has to be at work and my work is always with me (Oh! The joys of being a scribe) I’ve decided that Tot and I will take a little adventure by ferry and coach from here to London. I cannot fathom spending an extra £500. It’s un-Igbo. And I don’t have it so the point is moot.
Tot and I will be fine, travel and adventure is in our blood even if right now we look like we’re going into exile with our scruffy sleep-deprived selves.
But at least we have a choice and so many people in the world do not.
Wish me luck! And wave if you spot a dreadlocked woman in a red cardigan squinting out of the window of a coach looking angry at the world.
Oh pooey. Someone just offered their change. I’d better get off the floor.
Summary: County Antrim rocks (especially Ballycastle), Belfast sucks.