The Special Queue

This trip had begun without incident. The lines for passport checks at Bangkok were as enormous as usual. The immigration officers were as cheerful as a 3.00 am shift allowed. The airport Novotel didn’t mess up our booking. We swam. Got room service. Checked in our bags for the rest of our flight early. Watched, absolutely fascinated, as families with 60 kilo suitcases and huge unwieldy packages, failed to bypass Emirates flight stewards and ended up frantically redistributing their luggage on the terminal floor and still ending up at the excess baggage counter. Lyn ended a lifetime of turning up her nose at prawns when she discovered the Japanese tempura variety, and ordered a second helping. We slept a lot. Had a room service dinner. And, after midnight, walked back to the airport to continue our journey.

We’d reached the point where we were waiting in a long line for passport control. An immaculately uniformed official directed me to a shorter line and Lyn followed. I looked up to see a sign saying the line was for the disabled, children, pregnant women and, ... the elderly. The symbol for the latter was a stooped figure with a walking stick. I suppose my hair is whiteish but I was a little miffed.

My shoulder bag was disintegrating so I bought a new one. I write this waiting at Dubai for our last leg to Barcelona. Come to think of it, I am feeling my age ...