* * * * *Another year, more abject terror in the skies. No, I'm not talking about the lunatic who immolated himself on Christmas Day. I'm talking about the new security measures, which reduce air travellers to the status of inmates during a lockdown. No coats or blankets on your lap. No going to the bathroom during the last hour of the flight. Body searches, body scans. Bring out the sniffing dogs. Bring out the Ukrainian guards and the German officers, the long march to the gate.
Okay, maybe not the last one. But the effect amounts to just as much theatre.
I have never been to the bathroom on an airplane. Never. It's a personal record. Like I've said here before, they could have lions in there for all I know.
But people do go. It seems like they have to, because if it's anything like other public facilities, I'm guessing it's not much of a recreational thing.
No longer. Take that, ye old and/or incontinent.
It just goes on and on, doesn't it? Since 2001. Longer than either world war. I'm sure Orwell is spinning in his grave.
Even *I* wrote about this back in 2007 with my story Scissors, and when *I* get in on the act, you know it's really done.
Here's hoping that 2010 starts a growing trend of sense.
* * * * *And now, for all you baby-crazers out there, some holiday pictures of Oona.
In this one I've just told her that there's a moratorium on spanking for Christmas Day.
But only if she can spell moratorium.
Second attempt (not even close).
* * * * *Happy New Year!