The big day arrived. I’d packed my (enormous) bags, taken them to the airport, and just about avoided excess charges (my 7 Stage Technique worked beautifully... Well, that and having a wonderful stepmum, who may have artfully “re-arranged” my hand luggage so that during the check-in and weighing process, all of the heavy stuff from my cabin bag was sitting innocently in her handbag, only to be transferred back into my luggage when we were out of sight of the CIB. Oh yes, I’m crafty.)
But I digress - yes, it was ‘E’ Day (Emigration Day), and checked in, smirking slightly at my suitcase victory, whilst desperately trying to nonchalantly drag the damn thing that was meant to be 7kg, but at a conservative estimate in fact weighed 15kg (yes people, I pack too much, let’s move on from this) - I turned to say goodbye to my parents. This was - very honestly - the worst. I actually think I may still be medically dehydrated from how much I cried. My mascara ended up somewhere around my belly-button. And did I have a tissue? Oh no. In my (only) bid to be economical with packing, I hadn’t packed any. Unbelievable, I know.
With tears glistening in the eyes of my parents (whether from how much they’ll miss me, or how pleased they are to get their house back is to be discovered), I made it through security (always a worry, I just seem to have that kind of face which makes them suspicious), and into the joy of duty free. Only for me it wasn’t very joyous. No, still emotional and almost hyper-ventilating by this point, I was now roughly the colour of a tomato. Not my best look, and certainly not what I’d wanted in my attempt to be “long-haul chic” (although that dream died in the car en-route to Heathrow, when I managed to drop chocolate over the crotch of my jeans. A brown stain in that area is never a good thing).
With the acceptance that I’ve had worse looks (including a particularly bad summer in 1999, when I pretty much lived in a multi-coloured check dress which even Joseph (of the Multi-Coloured Coat) would have rejected as being “too clashy”), I calmed down, got on the flight, and collapsed. 13 hours later, I found myself in Singapore Airport, with 2 hours until my connecting flight to Sydney. Well, being a good little planner (other than on the tissue front...), I’d done my research and booked to have use of a lounge with showers. On checking-in (no cabin-luggage duplicity required here), I was offered a massage for a mere £15. Now, after 13 hours sitting in one pretty uncomfortable position, that was exactly what I needed.
Led into the darkened room, with the instructions “top off, bra off, lie down” I began to feel that this stopover could be an ‘experience’. (Please let me clarify before anybody gets too excited - I was lying facedown.) Moments later my masseur appeared, a diminutive, middle-aged lady sporting a gravity-defying beehive (think - a slightly younger, Singapore-version of Barbara Windsor, and you’re pretty much there), who proceeded to swing herself on top of me with incredible vigour, and start the massage with an upper-body strength which amazed me. Before the shock could fully register, she had worked her way from my upper back down to my very lower back, and appeared to be checking that my bowels were in full working order. Whether it was a violation, or a standard part of the service, I wasn’t sure. 15 minutes later (neither of us spoke - whether it was because she couldn’t speak much English, or because she wouldn’t want to be vocally identified at a future point, when police were involved, I couldn’t tell...) she slapped my bum and my back, gave my colon one more good squeeze, and said “thank you, goodbye”.
I was the plaything of a masseur. And she didn’t even offer to take me for dinner afterwards.
The journey continues. More when I reach Sydney.
Until then,
Belle x
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