Carol Forster column

Carol's luggage.
Carol's luggage.

This week, dear readers, you should call me Calamity Jane due to a series of unfortunate travelling mishaps involving one very badly behaved bag, on my journey to Bari.

Firstly, my ‘little’ trolley bag – intended as hand luggage – was a mite too heavy.

No surprises there.

So I dutifully trotted off to pay the excess leaving said bag at the check in.

To my absolute horror, on my return, it had been sent down the ‘atch, so to speak, and was too late to retrieve.

Worried would be an understatement.

Containing my valuables, I tried in vain to get help and was almost resigned to the sad fact that all would vapourize somewhere between Manchester and Bari.

Then, I met my airport heroine of the day who swung into action to retrieve the darn thing.

As a result, just before boarding my flight to Munich, I was happily reunited with my hand luggage. Oh joy.

After this, all seemed well again so I pootered around Munich airport with my smattering of German but this gay abandonment was to be short-lived upon entering my connecting flight to Bari.

There was one small problem – or should I say one oversized problem.

Yes, that bag again.

Would it fit into the overhead locker?

Would it heckers like. Well, I squidged it and squodged it. I yonked it and yanked it.

Then, in my despair, I uttered the magic words (in Italian of course) ‘Oh, I need a strong man right now!’

To my delight, several appeared, but one in particular proved hero of the hour – a Chemist from Bar who calmly heralded a stewardess and she gave the bag a new lease of life – it became a passenger with its very own seat, all belted in Business Class no less.

I now call it Buster, in memory of a naughty pony I once rode. I digress.

After a dubious sandwich and an impromptu English lesson, at the end of the flight, I waited for all to disembark so I could be reunited with my beloved Buster.

That bag will go far, mark my words.