How my brain caused an airport security incident

Some people ask why there is a picture of an artificial brain to the side of my blog. Well, I travel with it when I do school talks about the brain. And once, that got me into a great deal of trouble. I wrote about this trauma on a previous blog which I let go dormant. I have pasted the story below. Every word of it is true.

In which my brain causes a security alert at Belfast International Airport

I was coming back from Belfast, where I'd had a lovely day speaking to excellent audiences at County Antrim Grammar School. Ironically, this very day, when I'd shown my life-size, almost life-colour, life-weight model brain to one audience, I'd said, "One day, this will get me into trouble at an airport." And they'd all politely laughed. Later that day ...

So, coming through security in a very long queue, and I'm waiting for my bag to emerge from the weird bit where everything seems to disappear for longer than it should. And I'm standing in my pink socks (because I'd forgotten that I'd have to take my boots off and reveal that I was wearing more than black tights. Obviously, I was wearing more than black tights but you know what I mean.) And I'm wondering why four security people are leaning over the computer screen and pointing and turning their heads sideways and Looking Concerned and calling more people over. Then a man comes up to me, pleasantly enough, and says:

"Is this your bag, madam?"
Me: Yes.
Man: Do you have anything unusually dense in your bag? (I am not joking. His exact words.)
Me: (immediately guessing the source of the problem and not realising that this is not the time for jokes) Ah yes, that'll be my brain.
Man: Sorry?
Me: (realising belatedly that this is still not the time for jokes): A model brain. I carry a model brain because I'm an author.
Man: How does that explain it?
Me: Well, I write about the brain sometimes and I've been doing school talks in County Antrim Grammar School (hoping that the detail will make me sound authentic, which I am, and trying to look really relaxed and possibly even flirtatious, which is not something I really do unless pushed, which I was being) and well, this is one of my props.
Man: (perfectly pleasantly and nicely) I'm afraid we'll have to search your bag.

When security people say they're going to search your bag, they have a different meaning of the word "search" from the one my husband uses when he says he's going to search for the correct place to put the kitchen sieve. Very different. Their version of search involves them taking everything out of my bag, and then everything out of everything that's in my bag. Now I, being a bit of a control freak and an ex-girl guide, tend to have some weird things in my bag when I'm away doing school talks. Even weirder than plastic brains. To be honest I'd prefer not to say some of the things that I had in my bag but if you were one of my fellow passengers, you would know. And you would be laughing. As they were.

Anyway, each item had to be swabbed. They even took my brain to pieces and swabbed every part. I now have the cleanest limbic system and brain stem in Scotland, possibly the world. I mean, who else can say they've just had their brain swabbed by security, or indeed by anyone else?

One item they found needed further explanation (and widespread derision). It was a foil-wrapped package, small, about the size of two flapjacks. The fact that it actually was two flapjacks was not enough for the security people: they had to ask me what it was. I said it was special brain food, my own recipe, a new variation on my world-famous Brain Cake (TM), called Brain Bars (TM). This is the literal truth but was not enough. They had to smell it. "Flapjacks," was the verdict. "With other stuff in. Bits, sort of."

"What do you do with that, then?" they asked.

"Er, well eat it. I plan to eat it on the plane."

"Yes, but how is it good for your brain?"

Well, they did ask for the lecture ...

Now, all this was done in the spirit of enormous hilarity. However, I would have been less hilarious-minded if I had realised that Easyjet (praise be to them for cheap flights and horrible uniforms and blamelessly egalitarian boarding systems, unless you are the last one to board) had in their wisdom decided to move the flight to an earlier time and not tell me. So, having endured fifty minutes of such hilarity and thinking I might have time for a quick coffee, I sauntered through to the departure lounge with my clean brain, only to discover that my flight had just issued a final call. And the gate was not exactly near.

Some of you may know that I do need to wear good boots for school talks but by "good boots" I mean "good boots for looking glamorous in", not "good boots for running through airports in".

Previously in airports, I have been the one who has rolled her eyeballs and frowned superciliously when some idiot is called by name to board the plane at the last minute. "Would passengers Stupid and Inebriated please proceed immediately to Gate 1078 for immediate boarding. Failure to arrive in the next five seconds will cause your luggage to be removed and you to be forcibly ejected from the airport to enduring public ridicule and ignominy."

I will never roll my eyeballs at such people again. I now realise that all they were doing was carrying perfectly innocent, though possibly weird, items through security. They are the mere victims in our sad mistrusting world. They are the ... Yes, well, anyway. They probably are sometimes stupid or inebriated but I honestly wasn't. But I was last onto the plane and people had to get out of their seats to let me in and it was very demeaning and I am just glad I'm not famous.

But what I'd like to know (granted that the security people were only doing their job and doing it brilliantly, and actually were very pleasant, and that I have every respect and sympathy for them) is this: having established that the offending item was only ("only") an artificial brain, why did they still think that every damned item in my bag needed swabbing and sniffing? Is it the case that someone carrying an artificial brain and some flapjacks is in any way more likely to be an international terrorist? And why did they also take my perfume away and subject it to chemical analysis? Because I was carrying a plastic brain? Is it written somewhere that someone carrying a plastic brain is statistically more likely also to be using Issy Miyake as a disguise for something dangerous? It's the rule book what's wrong, not the excellent staff. It's not well designed for catching people who really might cause damage, not flapjack-carrying unfortunates like moi.

And another thing: the security people said that next time, if I take the brain out of the box and send it through the x-ray uncovered (yeah right, I can really see me doing that - so, certain ridicule versus possible ridicule??) there'd be no problem. Apparently the problem is trying to hide a brain and to make it look like a thing that's trying not to look like a brain.

I do not pretend to understand such things. Maybe if I had a better brain ... Or maybe next time I'll just leave my brain at home.

But there is a happy outcome to this story. Prepare to be very, very jealous. You see, they called the head of Security Training - oh yes, the Head of Security Training - over and they have decided that my brain (not yours, MINE) is going to be used as part of their training manual. I said that I'd have to charge a fee for this. They actually for several moments looked as though they thought I was being serious, but I decided not to push my luck and I quit while I was not really ahead. But anyway, yes, I am proud to tell you that it is now the case that my brain is part of the training for airport security.

Not many people can say that.

PS - when I told my husband about this, adding that "I knew this would happen one day," his response was, "I told you so." How does that work as a useful response? Anyway, at least I know where the kitchen sieve lives. I have the right sort of brain.

(COMMENTS CLOSED - I'M NOT HERE ANY MORE)

Thou Shalt Not Be Bad In The Shed

Today and tomorrow my much-anticipated garden office shed construction thing is being installed. Clearly, this is going to revolutionise my working life and turn me almost literally overnight into the rich and famous author I really ought to be by now.

However, for this to happen, there must be rules of behaviour in my shed-office. (Behaviour by me, I mean: no one else will be allowed in it, evah.) There must be things I may not do and things I must do and, obviously, times at which things may or may not happen. This is (*stern face*) to be a working environment and therefore certain restrictions on pleasure must be enforced. With suitable punishments on the breaking thereof.

What should these rules be, my friends? I'd like to say "All suggestions welcome", but I admit that some will be more welcome than others.

I will eventually publish my chosen rules and display them in the office-shed-garden-thing.

When the shed is there in all its glory, I will also have a competition to name the shed. Don't give me any ideas now, please - you need to SEE the edifice first, to understand its soul, to breathe in its aura. [Edited to add: actually, I rather think that Mike Jarman has already named the shed, inadvertently, this morning on Twitter, when he called it the Crabbit Hutch. I think that could be unbeatable!]

Rules, please, now. And be as strict as you like.

Of younger daughters

My younger daughter is in South Africa. She did not go there to do very silly things but to start her career as a documentary film-maker. The first very silly thing she did was go surfing on a beach with the red flag up.

"What does the red flag mean?" I asked, in my foolishness.

"Well, it's not as bad as the black flag. The black flag means there's a shark in the water."

"OK, so it's not as bad as that. That's good. What does the red flag mean?"

"A shark has been seen recently and basically everyone should get out."

"So, why didn't you?"

"Because the instructor said it was OK and, anyway, lots of other people were in the water."


"Do you have your instructor's phone number??? I would quite like it."

The second very silly thing she did was jump out of a plane. Well, I say "plane". Judging from her description and some of the photos I've seen, it was more biscuit tin without lid. But wings. Well, I say "wings"...

"Weren't you worried about that crappy plane?" I asked, in my foolishness.

"No, I had a parachute on."

?????????????

She's been fascinated by Africa for ages, and would love to end up making documentaries for a big charity there, perhaps an AIDS charity or focusing on women's health and education. She has been doing a work placement with a documentary film-making company in Cape Town, and learning masses. They asked her to stay a few more weeks, which she did, but last week she set off travelling, to soak up and learn more about Africa, taking in Mozambique, Malawi and Tanzania, including Zanzibar. On her own.

I don't think that's silly. I think it's brave. But I'm still worried.

Oops

In case you are wondering where the post I posted this morning disappeared to, I was not supposed to post it this morning but this evening. I am a bad author who should be working, and, I might point out, so should you...

Come back this evening, please, when you've kicked the day into touch with some excellent work.

My Saturday

Today, I did all of these things except one. Any guesses?

Clear site for new garden shed office thing

Weed entire (50m x 10m) garden so shed installers will be impressed

Make entire patio area perfect for same reason

Sit in sun for at least 3 mins

Make collage of things and frame for new office

Sort through old paint & find some to paint office with

Randomly decide to paint bathroom door, at last

Write diary for last 10 days

Email lovely person who is coming to stay to warn re electricians and explain flat will be a tip

Plan teenage brain event, which totally, like, MUST be done today

Commit to going ahead with Virtual Crabbit - online events. Decide first 3

Reply to Glorious Publicist Louise's email

Clean sheets on bed

Two laundry loads

Hang picture, at bloody last

Water sage and parsley seedlings

Write ABBA blog post for May 11th

Post sister-in-law's birthday present 

Put all comments from last night's Crabbit At Home party through random generator. Worry that  winners are good friends. Realise that all blog readers are friends anyway.

Reply, sadly negatively, to lovely book launch invitation from Famous Author :(

Email D2 in SA and phone D1 in London

Sign books requested by George Watson's College

Walk dog

Do dog's ear-drops, making self highly unpopular

Make list

Fritter much time on FB and Twitter

Clear up shocking mess left from last night's party, including items on chandeliers

Drink wine (after 7.30pm, obvs)

Well? What did I not do??????

Blog-warming party for Crabbit At Home!

Come in, come in! Here: let me take your coats. Champagne? Delicious canapés? Do come through to the conservatory and make yourself at home.

Just a few ground-rules.

1. Please keep your fingers off my Macbook and do not open my Twitter account and pretend to be me. 
2. If you wish to look at any books on my shelves, wipe the chocolate off your fingers first.
3. Do not go searching for the keys to my cellar - you won't find them, anyway. I'm used to hiding them from certain "friends". Gillian Philip, I'm frowning at you.
4. Please put your gifts on the hall table, or beneath it if your gift is particularly huge. Thank you in advance especially for the sparkly wine, chocolate (especially from Coco of Bruntsfield, or, at a pinch, Hotel Chocolat) and Landlord or Tops'l cake from Botham's of Whitby. 
5. If you see Jane Smith, don't tell her my new address.

And, talking of chocolate, we need a prize. All commenters below will be entered into a random draw and two lucky winners will receive a delicious luxury bar of Coco chocolate. I know it's delicious because I'm eating some now. You'll be able to pick your chosen bar from their website. I will post prizes to any UK address and if you don't have one of those, I do :)

In your comment, just say anything appropriately partyish. Tell me what you like about my home. Admire my etchings. Tell me if you see Jane Smith nosing around.

And - here's the nifty bit - you can even tell us any good news you've just received. Yes, a licence to boast, but nicely and BRIEFLY. (NB NO links to Amazon, please.) Or tell us about your own blog. And if you do it politely, elegantly and sparklily, they might even come and visit you when I kick them out. But you have to make it sound interesting, otherwise they won't. You're mostly writers so if you can't make your blog sound interesting, you can't... Oh, hang on: sorry, it's meant to be a party, isn't it? *stops haranguing and resumes smiling*

Meanwhile, let me refill your glass. The champagne is on me and I have immense amounts of it hidden in secret places, which only my butler knows.

Let the party commence and welcome to Crabbit At Home!

A crabbit message to parents who boast

A serious thought for you this evening. A bit of crabbit thinking. (To offset the party tomorrow evening!)

Why do some people think it's ok to boast about their off-spring, including once they are grown-up? I mean really really boast? I mean, like telling us how much they paid for their house, what salary they are on, how many starred A grade A-levels or GCSEs they got, that they've just got a place at Cambridge (when they aren't friends, merely slight acquaintances)? Do people really think this is ok? Especially when they have no idea at all whether the person they are telling has a very different situation to deal with.

This thought is not theoretical or idle. It has been precipitated by a series of incidents in which slight acquaintances have regaled me or my husband or other members of my family with puffed-up boasts about offspring (including some in their forties!) whom we have never met, and never particularly wish to.

Mr M and I count ourselves lucky enough that our daughters are safe, healthy, and making their way through life bravely and independently. Touch wood. But we have two close sets of friends who have gone through and are going though hell, sheer hell, with unbelievably awful things happening to their children. One couple, close friends for many years, recently lost their gorgeous, talented nineteen-year-old daughter to spinal cancer. Last month we went to her memorial service. The other couple are in an ongoing hell of a different sort. None of them, the young people or the parents, did anything to deserve either of these things. It was horrible luck. And when kids have wonderful success and fortune in their lives, the parents don't necessarily deserve that either. We certainly don't deserve to boast to all and sundry. Share pleasure with close friends, perhaps, delicately, gently, just a little bit, being sensitive to friends' own situations. But not boast. Not talk salaries and figures and exam grades and prizes and Oxbridge places, without any sensitivity at all.

To parents who think it's ok to boast in this way: shut up and just be glad that your kids are alive, healthy, and can wake up each morning with every intention of hitting the day running. Just be glad and be quiet.