When I was younger I had the strange and misguided belief that all things were possible. I suppose it was a good starting point, but sadly it was only going to end in disappointment. This belief was particularly strong where luggage was involved. There were two parts to this belief:
1. I could fit everything I wanted into one suitcase, and close the lid.
2. I could personally carry any number of cases, bags, coats, items of furniture etc if I just put in the effort.
It took a long time, and a lot of heartache, before I had to reluctantly admit defeat on both fronts. The husband was somewhat pivotal to this admission when he became obsessive about weighing my suitcase before a flight. Much to my despair, he has always traveled light, not even filling a rucksack for a trip abroad (but sneaking his toiletries into my bulging case), so my luggage was always the bone of contention: I knew I needed 7 bikinis, 4 pairs of sandals and at least 2 changes of clothes per day, whereas he insisted my case should weigh no more than the maximum amount for the minimum payment to be put in the hold. With hindsight, I should have predicted this repetitive argument when, on his first visit to London to meet my parents, he arrived, having hitched a lift down the M1, with only a toothbrush in his pocket.I have a friend who was taken to the airport for a surprise holiday, only to find, on exiting the taxi, that the car boot was empty, her suitcases still neatly lined up on the pavement outside her house 50 miles away. Luckily, she took it very philosophically, got to her destination and had a whale of a time buying a whole new wardrobe. Unlike the husband, who, despite his ‘travelling light,’ regime, sank into the depths of despair the one time his backpack was lost between Liverpool and Tenerife. Through his insurance he was given a very small advance to replace the missing clothes. Instead of relaxing by the pool we spent the next three days wandering around cheap clothes shops and markets, where nothing was quite up to his (eBay acquired) Fat Face and Superdry shorts and t-shirts. By the time the missing luggage caught up with the us I was sick of the sight of him in the same misshapen vests and flimsy swimming trunks.
The most recent tale of lost luggage was only a few months ago - and entirely my fault. As a birthday surprise the husband had booked a pub stay for a couple of nights and planned a day out in Hebden Bridge where we were to watch a band in the evening. It all started well. We alighted the train at our destination and revelled in the warmth of a spring day as we walked through the park to the town. First stop is always a coffee, and as we entered the cafe I offered to go to the counter. It was at this point I realised I had no bag, and consequently no money, no camera, no headphones, no laptop, no phone charger, no kindle, no knitting - and none of the other paraphernalia I cart around on a daily basis.What ensued would have made a great little film under the right circumstances. I was shocked and in a panic. My phone was the cause of the problem - I’d been engrossed in social media when the husband had called out, ‘Next stop!’ and I’d stepped off the train whilst posting to Twitter. Throughout the next 24 hours, along with the strain of the missing backpack, I had to listen to the husband repeatedly and sanctimoniously telling me that it was all my own fault. I didn’t need telling, I knew it was.After I’d spent a good hour on the phone cancelling bank cards, trying to get through to a railway station (did you know no stations have telephones these days?) mourning the loss of my camera and lovely leather purse, I suddenly remembered that I’d been given some money for my birthday and had treated myself - at great expense - to AirTags. Excitedly, I went to the Find Me app and discovered that my keys were safely at home, my phone was in my hand and my bag and purse were worryingly separated but at least discoverable. That day, my luggage went on a big adventure. On the online app, I watched, in horror as purse and rucksack traveled randomly between railway stations. There seemed to be no plan. They didn’t appear to be heading for any particular destination, but rather, they were off on a little Spring jaunt. Back and forth they went, one moment coming to a hault in Chester, the next, apparently separated as rucksack took off on its own towards Leeds and purse was left on the station. Next time I looked, purse had caught up and they were both heading back towards Manchester.This complicated dance went on all day. We skipped morning coffee, lunch and afternoon tea, and wandered aimlessly around the shops, stopping frequently to make phone calls to anyone who would listen, and to check the journey of the missing items. I bought a new phone charger and a lipstick to replace those that I might never see again. I spoke to a lovely man in Manchester who gave me his personal mobile number and promised he would leap onto the train when it stopped and retrieve my luggage. I was optimistic until I checked the app again, only to discover that the bag and its belongings had never reached Manchester, and was currently hurtling back towards Crewe.The whole day was spent tracking my luggage from station to station, pausing occasionally before setting off again. I despaired of ever seeing it again. I resigned myself to the fact that somebody had picked up the bag and all its belongings and was just biding their time till they could get off the train, discover the cards had been cancelled, spend all my money, knit a bit more of my scarf, have a read on my kindle and take a few pictures with my camera.To cut a very long story short, I collected my luggage from Blackpool North the following day. Unbelievably it was all intact. It had been found by the train guard soon after I’d abandoned it. He’d looked inside and found a business card (with my old phone number), tried to contact me, then given up and his phone had died. Eventually he made contact through my Facebook page and passed the bag onto a colleague, the guard on the Blackpool train.
So, you see, there is sometimes a happy ending. And luggage and I are now working on our relationship, hoping to stay more closely connected in future. It’s a work in progress.Secrets of the Family Suitcase
One of the last things I move
From the top of the wardrobe
When I clear my parents’ house
Is the suitcase
I pull it down, fight with buckles
Wrestle with the rusty zip
Open up
And inhale the memories
The Norfolk Broads where Geoff fell in
Dad shouted, mom cried
The annual week in Margate with our cousins
Sea, sand, Punch and Judy, bliss
That awful caravan, it rained non stop
Dad sent us out for matches
For some peace
Little brother born nine months later
America with old friends, Ken and Doris
Mum took Sea Legs
Fainted in the vineyard
And nearly lost her head at the casino
That trip to Kenya in their 70s
For a nephew’s wedding
Where they rode an elephant
Hid in tents, ate strange and wondrous food.
It’s not been used for years
This case, heavy with memories
I sigh and close the lid
Put it with the pile marked ‘to go.’
Thanks for reading…….JillEmail ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
