The First Class Traveller
by Cally Phillips
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: When a lot of baggage goes with you on your travels.
Swearwords: None.
Description: When a lot of baggage goes with you on your travels.
He wears a top hat. He’s always formally dressed, even in the twenty first century, he wears tails when travelling. And he always travels first class.
So he always gets there before you, and he’s always more relaxed.
While you’re sweating it out in Virgin standard class, because the air conditioning has broken down again and the obligatory screaming child is giving it the traditional “laldy” at the table opposite, and the best reason you’ve found today for contraception is in the seat behind you, rhythmically kicking at your seat; he’s getting free tea and coffee, stretching his legs and planning his next move in ease and comfort.
It doesn’t matter what mode of transport you select. While you’re on “whoever we are this week” budget airways, wrestling with economy class syndrome, he’s lording it up in the first class lounge. Lounging comes naturally to him.
You can’t run fast enough to escape him. You’d swear he’s the one thing that can travel faster than the speed of light. He could teach the Germans a thing or two about being first on the sunbeds. He’s a winner.
When you arrive, weary and frustrated; in your all too familiar state of angst and fear; at the hotel, bed and breakfast, whatever new bed you must sleep in tonight before the fears turn into the actuality of the new place next day, you’ll find him there, lying on your bed, twirling his moustache, smoking a cocktail cigarette, ready to greet you.
His luggage never gets lost on the carousel. And by the way, his luggage is designer leather, like real old fashioned luggage used to be. Not a cheap Chinese import with a zipper which as often as not fails to work. I say his luggage, because in fact if you think about it, it’s your luggage. It’s your luggage which travels in style, which gets there before you, which is so beautifully wrapped in transit and which he unpacks for you to leave lying oh so casually around the hotel, bed and breakfast, whatever new bed you must sleep in tonight. Your luggage. Your fears. Your phobias. Your psychoses.
The only way to lose him, is to lose your luggage.
But he takes such care of your luggage. You can’t exactly wrest it off him. He acts like it’s his prize possession. He’s the caretaker of your soul, the host of all your confusion. What can you do to get your life back from him?
You can’t run and you can’t hide. You can’t fight him and you mustn’t give in.
Maybe you should make friends with him?
Give him your luggage?
Change the name on the label?
Perhaps next time you travel, you shouldn’t pack?
Or just stay at home till you’ve figured out how to travel really light.
So he always gets there before you, and he’s always more relaxed.
While you’re sweating it out in Virgin standard class, because the air conditioning has broken down again and the obligatory screaming child is giving it the traditional “laldy” at the table opposite, and the best reason you’ve found today for contraception is in the seat behind you, rhythmically kicking at your seat; he’s getting free tea and coffee, stretching his legs and planning his next move in ease and comfort.
It doesn’t matter what mode of transport you select. While you’re on “whoever we are this week” budget airways, wrestling with economy class syndrome, he’s lording it up in the first class lounge. Lounging comes naturally to him.
You can’t run fast enough to escape him. You’d swear he’s the one thing that can travel faster than the speed of light. He could teach the Germans a thing or two about being first on the sunbeds. He’s a winner.
When you arrive, weary and frustrated; in your all too familiar state of angst and fear; at the hotel, bed and breakfast, whatever new bed you must sleep in tonight before the fears turn into the actuality of the new place next day, you’ll find him there, lying on your bed, twirling his moustache, smoking a cocktail cigarette, ready to greet you.
His luggage never gets lost on the carousel. And by the way, his luggage is designer leather, like real old fashioned luggage used to be. Not a cheap Chinese import with a zipper which as often as not fails to work. I say his luggage, because in fact if you think about it, it’s your luggage. It’s your luggage which travels in style, which gets there before you, which is so beautifully wrapped in transit and which he unpacks for you to leave lying oh so casually around the hotel, bed and breakfast, whatever new bed you must sleep in tonight. Your luggage. Your fears. Your phobias. Your psychoses.
The only way to lose him, is to lose your luggage.
But he takes such care of your luggage. You can’t exactly wrest it off him. He acts like it’s his prize possession. He’s the caretaker of your soul, the host of all your confusion. What can you do to get your life back from him?
You can’t run and you can’t hide. You can’t fight him and you mustn’t give in.
Maybe you should make friends with him?
Give him your luggage?
Change the name on the label?
Perhaps next time you travel, you shouldn’t pack?
Or just stay at home till you’ve figured out how to travel really light.
About the Author
Cally Phillips has written fiction and drama in English and Scots, much of which is published through HoAmPresst. She also currently works as editor for Ayton Publishing Limited and runs a number of online projects, including The Galloway Raiders, which is the online hub for Scots writer S. R. Crockett. Her latest project to hit the virtual shelves is the #tobelikeche serial, which started in October 2016.
For the archive of Cally’s fiction and drama, follow this link.
For the archive of Cally’s fiction and drama, follow this link.