We say our goodbyes and I make my way to departures, gliding effortlessly through the airport, boys and baggage all under control. A veritable one woman band. I am so pleased with myself and my contraption that I have to text my partner on my mobile using my free hand. Because I can. I bask in the admiring looks and comments as I zip past people who are struggling with far inferior amounts of luggage.
Until, that is, I get to the security gate queue. I eye the zigzag cordon with a sinking feeling. I forge ahead resolutely, taking the corner posts with me at every direction change. Horace goes skiing springs to mind. I receive amused, sympathetic reactions from the people behind me in the winding tailback. As I turn the final corner, I catch the eye of a friendly man, and give him a “phew I made it” look. He smiles. I smile back. And then I freeze. It’s Boris Izaguirre (a Venezuelan-Spanish TV presenter: funny, camp, immensely likeable). Why do I get tongue-tied around famous people?
The one woman band is made to completely disassemble for the X-ray machine and then reassemble again. All bags and boys are on board. Tickets. Passports. Double-check. Boris is long gone. Damn. In a parallel universe we’d have gone for a coffee and I’d have told him about a night in Salamanca five years ago when I went to a party at my literature professor’s house with a bunch of other post-grads. My tipsy prof read aloud some passages from Boris’s (rather steamy) novel. Surely every writer would love to hear about a scene like this involving the reception of their book. Boris, I’m sure you read a lot of mum blogs... If you’re out there could I just say thanks for the beautiful moment. My dynamic, passionate and illustrious literature professor loved your book.