Carousel of Chaos
Around and around they go,
Large and small suitcases, backpacks, pull-alongs, four-wheel drives.
And other less common pieces of kit,
A musical instrument, some sporting equipment, a pushchair or two.
All the colours on the spectrum,
Where once there was only black, grey and brown.
Personal luggage tags with mildly amusing – or so they seemed at the beginning of the journey – mottos,
‘Seasoned Traveller’, ‘Holiday Holdall’, ‘On the Inside I’m a Mess!’
Me, I always travel with a piece of paper inside my bag,
Complete with name, mobile number, destination address.
I’ve done so since hearing of the auctions selling off lost and tag-less property,
How high a price for part-used lotions and potions? Who’d want my dirty laundry? Someone it seems.
We’ve been here for quite a while now,
Around and around they go; suitcases, backpacks and the rest.
Three deep, packed tightly together scrunched around the slow moving belt,
Not at our freshest, after a more than seven hour flight, tempers start to fray.
It seems the contents of the two separate airplane holds,
Are being delivered to Carousel 8.
But the currently waiting vehicle load of humans,
Don’t match up with the items of baggage travelling the mental roundabout.
Ground staff step in.
And saving the offending items from any rough handling,
They line them up behind us.
Sure to cause more problems when their owners eventually proceed through immigration.
We wait. And wait.
Finally, to the collective relief of all, the conveyor clunks to life once more.
The hot and noisy baggage hall has taken its toll.
Hot and bothered passengers wiping our brows, bored and tired porters checking their watches.
There’s a bit of a scuffle as an older man is nudged aside in another’s haste to retrieve his possessions,
A stranger’s hand holds him steady. Some tutting, an apology, fragile peace is restored.
I release my own bag from its’ circular journey,
The low level anxiety I always experience during such lingering over for another trip.