At Gatwick

Well, British Airways security has been kind to me, but I swear there is some kind of conspiracy against female kind in general. After I landed here for my 6-hour layover, I ate a huge breakfast of bangers, ham, mushrooms, hashbrowns and toast, then hobbled into the pharmacy to try to find something with which to freshen up. The makeup aisles had been ransacked and the store had a special offer on facial wipes. I can only conclude from the hoardes of women buying cheap makeup and other necessaries that we’re getting hit financially the hardest with these so-called security restrictions on liquids and gels (in fact, no cosmetics are permitted on any BA flights).

So, if you “follow the money trail,” as they say, and have a suspicious enough mind, you can see the cosmetics companies cleaning up on this. It’s probably just a coincidence, but it’s kind of an interesting idea: terrorism alerts sponsored by different industries to generate market for their products.

The ankle is still quite puffy. I managed as best I could on the plane with ice (the BA flight attendents were extremely sweet about helping me any way they could). The pharmacist here at Gatwick recommended to me a tube of ibuprofen gel, which I’m applying liberally. It’s so swollen that you can see where I was bitten by a puppy when I was 4 years old. All the teeth mark scars stretch sickly pale against the bruising skin.

I read a really excellent historical mystery that the Quirky Chick gave me called The Thief Taker by Janet Gleeson. I can only hope to write historical fiction this clever. It’s set in 1780 London and the heroine is the head cook for a family of silver smiths. It was so charming, I think I want to read it again to see if I can figure out the magic trick. The Quirky Chick had loaned me a second book that was much bigger, but my spider senses told me not to pack it. I was right: the scales at the airport had my bags exactly at the weight limit.

Must log off and save computer juice…

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