"Will passenger blah blah blah please report to the departure gate. Will passenger blah blah blah please report to the departure gate". At least that is how I usually hear these announcements. But this time it was my name that was being called. I'd been caught!
I should have waited until the last leg to pinch the Royal Brunei spoon to add to my collection of pilfered airline cutlery. My clumsy attempt to transfer it from my jacket pocket to my bag during the, I thought, unnecessary security check during transit in Brisbane, had been noted.
I toyed with the idea of chucking it in a bin but decided to brazen it out.
Up to that point I had felt someone smiling down on me - yes, I'd been pulled out of line at Auckland and given a 'contact search', but I had plenty of time and nothing better to do. And when I had discovered a wizened Asian crone in my window seat I let it slide and was rewarded by having the only working entertainment module for rows. After a film ("Wild Hogs") I even swapped my seat with a rather fetching blonde so she could break her boredom. Even my food arrived early as I'd ordered Halal, although each time I have to go through a routine where the stewardess asks incredulously whether I had really ordered Muslim food. Muslims eat French toast and poached eggs for breakfast. Now you know.
Even when I was pulled out of line again at Brisbane and checked for "traces of explosives, sir" it was by another pretty blonde - and I cut the queue again.
But now my luck had changed. Pity.
I went to the gate where an official handed me my passport and boarding pass. They had dropped, unnoticed by me, out of my jacket.
"You'll be needing these," he said and let me jump the queue. Someone was still smiling on me.
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