My kinda town

I made an executive decision to bin going back to Chicago for one day on Monday and instead spend another day at home and then fly straight to Bermuda instead. Clever? Wrong.

I arrived at Bermuda's Hamilton airport on Monday night after having to change at JFK and watched the baggage carousel go round and round without my bag on it.Why was it when I gave my bag to a bloke at the transfer desk in New York, a terrible feeling of dread came over me? I knew then that I should have wished it goodbye. The greasy fat non-English speaking airport employee clearly did not have the same desire as me to get my worldy goods to Bermuda.

So, Monday night I am told my bag is at JFK in security and it will be in Bermuda early the next morning. On Tuesday morning I am told my bag is at JFK in security and it will at my hotel later that day. On Wednesday morning I am told my bag was last seen "at the ramp" and it will be in Bermuda later that day. On Wednesay night I am told that they don't know where my bag is.

I shout and holler but to no avail and I make plans for the insurance job. You know the sketch.... Rolex, Gucci shoes, penny black stamp, all very close to my heart.

So at 7am this morning I go to check out and just for the heck of it I ask, for the umpteenth time, the sleepy-eyed lady at the reception if they have had a bag turn up from the airport and like an illusion she pulls my case out of a broom cupboard.

After I hugged and kissed her realisation set in. "How long have you had this," I ask. "Oh, I don't know," she said. Hmmm, oh well just bloody pleased to be able to change my pants!