I left you in the last blog gripped in suspense after revealing that my bag had been lost on my journey from Manchester to Schipol Airport near Amsterdam. I've come over to study for 4 months in The Hague in the south-east of the Netherlands, so it wasn't off to the best of starts.
Firstly I arrived at the airport and was informed by the woman behind the counter that because I hadn't checked in online I would have to pay an extra £10 to register my passport. I asked if she would accept a song instead. She didn't laugh. She then asked if I had any baggage. I told her I had 2 children from a previous relationship. Not even a smile. Finally she wanted to know if I'd packed my bag myself. By this point I was fairly sure she'd had a humour bypass recently so resisted any further temptations involving my terrorist butler packing it for me.
Then I arrived and my bag wasn't on the carousel. I was starting to regret joking around with the one woman who had the power to control the destiny of my belongings. Had the baggage joke been a final straw? Had she snapped and sent my bag to Africa?
In the end it worked out as a bit of a blessing in disguise, as although I couldn't shower or change clothes (whats new?), I didn't have to lug my bag around and it was delivered the next day by a man in a small white van smoking a cigarette. (The man, not my bag.)
And so, the moral of this tale is if you fly with BMIbaby from Manchester, and need to deliver, say, a new heart to a dying child in the Netherlands, buy a ticket to Peru. It's probably got more chance of getting to where you wanted it.
Either that or just don't go to the check in desk where Eva Braun is the assistant.