Hello, you.
I have taken this week off, kind of, for the two-year anniversary of SWEETIE. I have spent the last five days frolicking through Belgium by myself, eating frites, speaking bad French and worse Dutch, listening to Air and Pig Iron, and marvelling at life’s endless splendour. While I genuinely wanted to write an edition to be sent out as usual this evening, fate intervened. I spent most of my day travelling back to London with a sick feeling in my stomach, knowing that something was going to go wrong, but not knowing exactly what, where, or how. Call it intuition, call me crazy, but my anxiety proved portentous.
As I walked down the aisle on my full BA flight this afternoon (economy — don’t worry) and noticed the lack of overhead locker space, I became worried. The lockers were stashed with fat shopping bags bursting with Belgian chocolates and smushed backpacks, and I couldn’t find any room for my little suitcase. A flight attendant took it upon himself to find room, somewhere, somehow, on the flight. A few minutes later he returned, flustered, and told me he’d need to check my bag below as we sat on the tarmac.
I watched him carry away my bag, and I knew I would not soon be seeing that shitty little suitcase again. He came over a few minutes later to ask if we plebs in the exit row — of course I was in the exit row — would be comfortable saving everyone’s life should we need to. “Not really,” said the man to my left. I couldn't blame him. I had already vowed to myself that if the plane went down, everyone on the damn aircraft would be going with it. No way was I going to serve my duty as exit row hero and open that door to let everyone out. If I was leaving this experience sans suitcase and anxious as hell, so was everyone else, if they even made it at all.
We landed. After waiting for a true eternity at baggage claim, I had to accept that my suitcase wasn’t making its way onto the rickety carousel at Heathrow’s Terminal 5. The BA staff thought my bag might still be in Belgium, but it’s hard to tell, as it’s not even in the system, they said. They filed a report and gave me a fistful of printed paraphernalia covered in apologies and inconsistent formatting, then they send me on my way.
“How does an airline lose a cabin bag that’s literally on the plane?” You might ask, smartly and correctly. I just don’t know, but it’s a good question, and I find myself intoxicated by it. I came home without my waffles, my chocolates, my souvenirs, my gifts, an art print that will be crushed beyond belief, and my favourite dress, but with a bottle of champagne the flight attendants had either gifted me out of pity or spite. While I am really sad my suitcase is lost, one of the first things I thought when coming home was, “I can't wait to write about this crap.” And I’m so glad I have the space to do so.
THANK YOU for boarding my plane (subscribing to my newsletter over the last two years) and sitting in the exit row (reading it) and not knowing if your baggage will ever come back or if you’ll be schlepping home alone (either having a laff or wondering why you wasted your time). It means a lot to me. Not quite as much as getting my suitcase back would mean to me, but it’s really, really close. I promise.
Thanks for being here. Stay tuned for next week’s newsletter, RATES: Sending thinly veiled threats to airlines. HATES: Being arrested on trumped up charges.
Love you lots. Here’s to two HUNDRED more years of SWEETIE xxxxxx