London Heathrow. Terminal 4. The 8.30 evening flight back to Sydney. My hand luggage is pulled aside and my Fortnum & Mason Champagne Marmalade is pulled out and can't go on the flight. It's suggested I buy a small jar from Boots and put some in there. I think not. I tell the Customs guy, "Give it to your mother. It's delicious". He consequently lets me through the First Class entrance. Moral: upgrade with jam.
We're told our plane will be 4 hours delayed. I potter around the shops finding 20 ways to spend my money. I buy new hand luggage and give the old one to the Zambian toilet cleaner. I am benevolent tonight. I buy a slow whisky in one place and kill time amongst noisy passengers. I find Russell Brand's new book with it's silly title "Bookie Wookie" and read the back cover, pages 34 and 75. Very funny man. I should've bought it and read the whole thing. I buy another, faster whisky in another place. A bottle of perfume. A trash mag. I am ready for the trip home.
Eventually the shops all close. It's 11pm. I head towards my gate. The sound of a guitar, a bongo drum and hand-clapping becomes louder. It's disrupting Von Sudenfed on my iThing. A Spanish Catholic group of singers are singing songs to God. They even have a conductor; a proud upright woman waving her arms in staccato movements. They are heading to Sydney for the Youth Group to meet the Pope and a million other "Catholic youths". They sing song after song until we board. I surrender and am actually grateful they break the fluorescent monotomy of a loveless, late night terminal with some light Catholic Idol entertainment. I feel like I'm sitting inside an Edward Hopper painting in whisky-fuelled Bukowski smugness.
I take my pre-travel sleeping tablet - a stronger one than usual which my busy Publisher friend gave me and promised it would see me through the long trip across the planet. I'm really thirsty, I need water, I press the Steward button, I am making a bit of a scene. Unintentionally. I kick myself for forgetting to buy the most crucial thing: a bottle of water. We're still on the ground. The tablet knocked me out before departure.
5 hours later, I wake up to feel a hand massage my head.
Am I dreaming!? That's just crazy. It can't be. That just doesn't happen. I am about to snooze back again and dismiss the moment when I feel fingers going through my hair. I turn around and this unexpectedly rather gorgeous BOY is giving me a poker expression. I give him a strange kind of glare. Normal people back-off when I pull out that glare.
I lean back against my pillow and his hand slowly comes through the seat to skin-polish my arm. How brazen!
"What are you DOING!!!" I whisper loudly with my face squashed tightly in between the chair and window.
"I want your email. I am from Belgium."
I think the weirdest pick-up line I ever encountered was whilst rummaging through onions in Coles. "My - you're an efficient shopper." I am sure there are kookier ones but they escape me right now.
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