We flew home yesterday to our Western Outpost after a few days with our big kids in the North. It took us ten hours on two different flights with a lenghty connection in the middle. The security official on the final leg of a long weekend’s dog-legged journey took away my tweezers. Because they are very, very dangerous, he said. Given this was the 3rd aeroplane I had boarded in four days and given that I had been subjected to the same security scrutiny every time, I found it strange that I’d managed to hang onto my tweezers until then.
I found it even stranger that my tweezers were confisicated (the only danger being that, without them, I shall look like terrifying monobrow the next time I emerge from Outpost) considering my mace spray, nestling in bottom of bag next to tweezers, was ignored.
I’d have thought it was easier to hijack a plane with a face full of mace than a pair of tweezers. But then I’m not qualified as member of highly trained, quick witted, uniformed security team.
Later, on board, as I crossly analaysed the contents of my quite large and very heavy handbag, I found several other weapons that could have diverted our plane far more effectively than tweezers, apart from the mace, of course:
I could have stabbed pilot to death with my broken compact mirror;
I could have hit him over head with my cumbersome diary which has brick-like proportions;
I could have poked his eye out with my Clinique eyepencil (in Khaki) – which I could have just sharpened with eyepencil sharpener for greater accuracy and efficacy;
I could have given him an eye-full of Allure from the very large bottle in bag next to mace;
I could have necklaced him with any one of the stray ropes of beads and chains lying in a knot in base of bag;
I could have – given how irritated I was – screamed at him in manner of fishwife until he agreed to do my bidding.
But I didn’t. I just sulked all the way home and growled at my reflection in No 1 of hijack armoury because I wished I’d plucked my eyebrows in advance of flight home.