Ah, airport check-in. My favourite.

My foolproof plan to keep myself entertained in the one spot lasted a good three days. Am now en route to Budapest for a last-minute weekend do, rattling around on an old bus between Maastricht and Aachen, just over the German border. From there I’ll catch the train to Dortmund airport.

I’m partial to airports not just because of the very nice toilets but on account of the danger. You know, of being detained or searched for fear you might be a terrorist. I had a top time of it back in July, flying from Gatwick to China to buy lots of bootlegged gear (clearly I didn’t learn a lesson there, about comments made in jest):

I lugged my suitcase up to the counter, surreptitiously balanced it on my knee as it was weighed and got away with thirty odd kgs. But he at the counter wasn’t having any truck with cheek and blankly rattled off the usual scripted interrogation: ‘Did you pack your bag yourself this morning? Have you left it unattended at any time for any length of time? Are you transporting any darts, catapults, knitting needles, hypodermic syringes, pool cues or rocket launchers in your hand luggage?’

And – my personal favourite – “Are you carrying any contraband without your knowledge?”

Well, I wouldn’t know about it then, would I? He eyed me warily, sizing up whether a five-foot girl with excited hair and blue-rimmed glasses might be a likely candidate for smuggling ground to air anti-aircraft missiles. To my great disappointment, eventually he let me pass, and I moved on to the security check. There, lip balms, mascara, snot rags and all other liquids must be plastic bagged and presented separately for inspection. It seemed the powers that were at Gatwick airport felt that any cross-dressing terrorists who have cunningly hidden their explosives in their lipsticks would be foiled by an air-tight seal.

Like I said. Ah, airport check-in.