![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
In LAX, when I has passed through security and was about to change my money, suddenly all the uniformed personnel started yelling, "Security breach! Security breach! Nobody move, we are on lockdown!" Standing in front of the money exchange booth, it occurred to me that I was totally exposed to any possible, say, suicide bomber. So although I did not expect anything was actually going on and it did not actually scare me, it did seem sensible to take precautions.
I said, "Mind if I just move over three feet so I can... er... sit down on the carpet?" (And be behind a wall.
"No, you have to stay exactly where you are."
"All right... I'll just sit down where I am, then." I sat down behind my suitcase, which I figured was probably about as dense as the wall, if much smaller.
Needless to say nothing came of the whole thing, nor will I ever know what it was about.
Soon after I boarded the plane, I knocked over a full can of Coke all over my seat, the side of my hip, and the seat of my pants. While a flight attendant laid plastic over my seat, I wrestled a pair of pants put of my suitcase (already stowed overhead) and went to the bathroom to change... where I discovered that my underwear was also soaked. However, I was too lazy to go get another pair (and they were buried much deeper than the pants, which happened to be in an outside pocket) so I did something I have never done before: I flew an international flight while not wearing any underwear.
The flight was turbulent all the way there. It hit an especially bad patch right after coffe and tea was served, to everyone's annoyance; we kept getting our cups almost to our lips, then having to hold the cups away from us when the plane suddenly jerked or droped. It was like the torment of Tantalus. Then I did manage to drink some, and found that it had the flavor of burnt rubber with a delicate overtone of fresh-laid asphalt.
I am now in London. I spent several happy hours at Waterstone's, an enormous bookshop, where \i refrained from purchasing any books that they had more than one copy of. I'll buy those later, so I have less to lug to Madrid, etc; but did't want to miss any that someone else might buy and deprive me of. I bought Scott Westerfeld's The isen Empire (2 books in one volume), Georgette Heyer's False Colors, Noel Streatfeild's Tennis Shoes, BB's Down the Bright Stream, and Annie Dalton's the Rules of Magic. All very hard to find in the US, so I was very excited.
Dick Francis' Longshot: Surprisingly solid, though not top-rank.
Dean Koontz' The Taking: Readable even if I am braindead, which is what he specializes in and why I bought it; also overwritten-- really really overwritten, lame, and flatly characterized, even by Koontz' standards. Oh, and also right-wing, of the "people who consider peaceful solutions to problems are stupid cowards who will be eaten by Satan" variety. Avoid.
I said, "Mind if I just move over three feet so I can... er... sit down on the carpet?" (And be behind a wall.
"No, you have to stay exactly where you are."
"All right... I'll just sit down where I am, then." I sat down behind my suitcase, which I figured was probably about as dense as the wall, if much smaller.
Needless to say nothing came of the whole thing, nor will I ever know what it was about.
Soon after I boarded the plane, I knocked over a full can of Coke all over my seat, the side of my hip, and the seat of my pants. While a flight attendant laid plastic over my seat, I wrestled a pair of pants put of my suitcase (already stowed overhead) and went to the bathroom to change... where I discovered that my underwear was also soaked. However, I was too lazy to go get another pair (and they were buried much deeper than the pants, which happened to be in an outside pocket) so I did something I have never done before: I flew an international flight while not wearing any underwear.
The flight was turbulent all the way there. It hit an especially bad patch right after coffe and tea was served, to everyone's annoyance; we kept getting our cups almost to our lips, then having to hold the cups away from us when the plane suddenly jerked or droped. It was like the torment of Tantalus. Then I did manage to drink some, and found that it had the flavor of burnt rubber with a delicate overtone of fresh-laid asphalt.
I am now in London. I spent several happy hours at Waterstone's, an enormous bookshop, where \i refrained from purchasing any books that they had more than one copy of. I'll buy those later, so I have less to lug to Madrid, etc; but did't want to miss any that someone else might buy and deprive me of. I bought Scott Westerfeld's The isen Empire (2 books in one volume), Georgette Heyer's False Colors, Noel Streatfeild's Tennis Shoes, BB's Down the Bright Stream, and Annie Dalton's the Rules of Magic. All very hard to find in the US, so I was very excited.
Dick Francis' Longshot: Surprisingly solid, though not top-rank.
Dean Koontz' The Taking: Readable even if I am braindead, which is what he specializes in and why I bought it; also overwritten-- really really overwritten, lame, and flatly characterized, even by Koontz' standards. Oh, and also right-wing, of the "people who consider peaceful solutions to problems are stupid cowards who will be eaten by Satan" variety. Avoid.