Contraband

Things are getting dull, I have travelled at least three times, pumped and dumped, returned home and had no funny stories to share.  I must be getting used to it.  I am blasé about drunk expressing in the shower.  Hotel staff fingering my flanges no longer phases me. Nipping out for a quick tit-squeeze during a coffee break is old hat.  Being groped by an airport security guard… now hang on!

There’s a loud beep as I walk through the archway, I think she says “zur Seite ” so I step into the booth. I’m sure there’s no metal on me but the paddle beeps all over.  It makes a comedy whizzing sound around my chest region but the guard does not share my amusement. She barks something and she takes my raised eyebrow and nervous half smile to be consent for her to stick her hand up my bra. Over the clothes but still, she hasn’t even asked my name yet!

At this moment I remember that I am wearing breast pads. My mind starts to race, I envisage trying to explain their presence in pidgin German, I work out how best to mime “they’re there to catch the leaking milk”, I expect the sniffer dogs to be so interested in the milky smell that I get detained whilst my innocent breast pads are sent to a lab for drugs testing. I start to panic that I don’t have a spare set and that I packed my pump in my hold luggage but at least if I am leaking whilst detained it might help to prove my innocence.

She shrugs and sends me on my way.  I am flustered, red-faced, a little shaken, and my pads are in the wrong place.  I’ve not felt this awkward since Corinne Crutchley’s 15th Birthday party.  I wonder if BA serve Strawberry Kiwi 20/20. 

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