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A young man wearing a custom-made suit and polished shoes is spitting fire at a porter. "I told you," he bellows "you [insert matriarchal relationship + human anatomical part], the bag can't touch the ground." The porter and I stare at the wheels of the Louis Vuitton bag in question, and wonder confusedly about the purpose of a wheeled bag that cannot be wheeled.
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As if on cue, I spot the 'socialite' carefully lowering her croc Birkin into its dustbag and then into its raincoat (one must be prepared for sudden downpours inside terminals) before she places it on the X-Ray belt. One lane away is the shifty teenage 'dude' who seems nervous about the botanical products that he may or may not have stuffed into his pockets (memories can get a bit foggy). I watch him collect his bag and sprint towards the gate, looking furtively over his shoulder - sure enough, he's going to Goa.
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My daughter insisted on drinking only juice at breakfast and then again at lunch. I was taken aback considering that I hadn't spoken of my juicing (mis)adventure in her presence. And regardless of my own dieting fads, balanced eating for my daughter is kind of my <em>thing</em>. I tried to explain that my juices contained exactly what she was expected to eat -- spinach, beetroot, apple. With the infallible logic of a four-year-old, she then calmly stated, "I'll also only eat juice." This was a real problem.
Z had a friend over this morning. They were riding their little bicycles each with a nurse close at hand to make sure that nothing untoward occurred. When she wanted my attention, Z yelled out "Madam". I cringed. I've been teaching her not to call me that that but it slips out here and there. "Don't worry, Madam," her friend's nurse said. "They all do it."