Returning to her less-than-beloved Isle of Man home, Bettie welcomes in the New Year stuck in San Diego with a plastic surgery princess and some less-than-achievable resolutions.
Holy crap, diary, what a way to start a perfectly good new year. Three days in and I’m delayed at San Diego International, a virtual prisoner of Air Archipelago’s Crème De La Crème Class. I’m on my way back from the Pacific island paradise of Vanuatu after a blissful week of palm beaches, Piña Coladas and Port Vila pub crawls. But for the next Lord-knows-how-many hours, I’m trapped in that special limbo world of the airport terminal.
I’m also squashed next to this Phoenix-born denim-and-rhinestone beauty queen who’s reached the age where she’s more plastic than person. As I gaze around her radical rhinoplasty, it goes without saying that I’m not a fan of the modern obsession with nips, tucks and whacko treatments. Sheesh, every time I think of having something retouched or tightened or whatever, I have nightmares that some crazy white coat will pick up the wrong chart and I’d go in for the face of Angelina Jolie and come out with the ass of David Gest.
“Did you make any new year resolutions?” the self-built Barbie just asked. And I was going to say, ‘No, do I look like a dumb ass?’, but could see I’d already scrawled a few on a torn-up packet of Marlboros. They read:
1) Purge extraneous fat.
2) Casually disassociate with anyone who’s seen my birth certificate.
3) Give up my many worldly vices in favour of health and happiness. If health and/or happiness prove elusive circa January 15th, realize eternal quest for self-improvement is doomed. To supplement disappointment: Go blonde; buy higher heels.
Lord only knows when our flight is going to actually go anywhere? There’s been no useful news, just endless passenger announcements – but we’ve got so many passengers of a Hispanic persuasion, you can never be sure if they’re giving out another name check or just clearing their throats.
Bing-bong!
“Would passengers Joaquima, Hesus-Esperanza and Chiquitillo-Suárezpachão pleased be advised that you are now delaying the departure of this flight. We have identified your cheap-looking luggage and will nuke it if you do not arrive at the departure lounge in twenty, correction, eighteen seconds.”
Much, much later, I arrived back on the Isle of Man – you know the one where even the sheep get bored. Flying in was bad enough as I lost more than a couple of swigs of rum and Jack while the pilot tried to hit the postage-stamp of an airstrip. The indignity continued post-baggage claim, when the airline offered me a measly $25 meal voucher to compensate the inconvenience of the delay. And how is that commensurate to the loss of a half dozen hours of my life, I asked? If I was a high-class hooker, I’d have earned $25 just by taking off my coat. Six hours is like losing over seven thousand in measurable income. But the galley-hag just couldn’t see my reasoning.
Oh, and one more tip: when going through customs, if asked, “Are you carrying any drugs?”, do not reply, “Sure, what do you need?”
As I said, diary, what a way to start the year, but I had a sneaky suspicion that before the next twelve months were out, I’d require more than a swift slug of that Auld Lang Syne cup of kindness crap. I’d be needing some honest-to-goodness New Year miracles…
