Emotional baggage

Baggage handlers are cunts. And it’s next to impossible to report a crime in Britain. This is a true story.

Summary for the lazy: British Airways lost my case, things got nicked from it, crime pays, and the police service are nigh on incomprehensible

I’ve just got back from a quick work trip to Seattle. Seattle is lovely: it’s is full of nice people who give you bags of plastic cockroaches in exchange for heckling (improv night at comedy club, we win prizes for shouting out ludicrous selections), turn you upside down at a moments notice (simulator at the Museum of Flight), and try to kill you with food (dear god family dining is not meant for small men).  

Then, things started happening. I lost at an RTS. Repeatedly. I managed to lose the exit card from my passport. I tried to eat my own weight in fresh fruit and eggs benedict. And British Airways sent my case to Portugal.

Arriving back at Heathrow, we said our goodbyes at the carousel. My bag was taking a little longer than everyone else’s, so I waved them off. When it still didn’t appear, I was left to poke the nice man at the lost luggage desk.

“Where’s my case?”

“Fill out this form. It should placate you while we ring round the airport.”


“Haha. Your case is in transit to Portugal. Sorry about that. We’ll get it back to you tonight.”

Honestly, I was faintly pleased about all this. The worst part about traveling is the final journey home; carrying baggage on a train while trying desperately not to fall asleep. I hate that bit. If BA wanted to send my case direct to my door, so be it.

Two days later, it arrives. In a plastic bag. The case has been cracked open, and the contents are spilling out. Someone has opened it up, and had a rifle through my pants. Fuck.

Worse – when I finally open the bag and take a look, I discover that my minidisc player, which I use for recording interviews has been nicked. So has the mic, and so has my camera. They’ve also nicked a second passport I have to carry around for its visa. And they’ve lost my place in the book I was reading.

It takes an hour and a half of waiting* to speak to BA’s customer service.

“That’s a bummer. But hey! Thank goodness BA are exempt from providing compensation in the conditions of travel! Isn’t that lucky!”

“So you mean, actually, that even though someone has stolen my things under your care, you’re waiving any responsibility.”

“If you want to make an accusation like that, then you’ll have to make it to the police.”

“Well I just might do that.”

I tried reporting it to my local station. Or the call center you’re routed to when you call your local station.

“Nah, mate. You don’t wanna report it to ahhsssss. Talk to Thames Valley, mate. Their jurisdiction, innit!”

“I don’t fink so,” says Thames Valley. “Don’t have governance over Heefrow. Try there.”

“Can’t prove nothin’. Impossible to investigate. Why y’bovverin’, mate? Crime number for the insurance? Just talk to your local station.”

I’m finally routed back to Bath, and a local crime manager. He is a beautiful oasis of sanity in an increasingly mad world of call centers and hold tunes. He takes my details. He curses BA. He asks why I was in Seattle, and soothes my nerves. He even offers victim support. And then he brings up the horrifying reality of identity theft.

“You see. Now they’ve got a passport, they could go into the records and ask for a copy of your birth certificate. And maybe, after that, they could open a bank account, or apply for a credit card.”

Oh shit. What should I do.

“Inform the Passport Agency that your passport has been nicked. And you should probably contact the American Embassy.”

More call centers, more insanity. The Passport Agency ask me to fill out three forms, each of which requires my passport number. The number on the passport that’s been stolen. The American Embassy charge me £1.20/minute to be put on hold while they laugh at my misfortune. And during the second call to the Passport Agency, they try and convince me to drive to Newport to convince them in person.

I think I might cry.

But I got promoted this week. And the cockroaches made it home JUST FINE. So on balance, I think I’ve had a great week.

*This is literally no exaggeration. The first number I called, the central baggage processing unit wouldn’t take calls – they left a message saying “we’re currently closed (while we rifle through your stuff). Please call back between the hours of 6am and 10 pm.” It was 3,30 pm.

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5 Comments on “Emotional baggage”

  1. The_B Says:

    Congratulations on the promotion. Commiserations on the luggage.

  2. Iain Says:

    The moral of the story: if you don’t want anything nicked from your luggage, put it in a bag full of plastic cockroaches.

    Congrats on getting Dep Ed, by the way.

  3. Tim, is this why you are so touchy about the forum shit?

    All the best.

  4. Rossignol Says:

    I have handluggage that can hold five days of pants/t-shirts, a toothbrush and a book. This is now all I take on Yanqui trips, for the very reasons you outline above.

  5. Vavaboom Says:

    Aww poor Timmy, i can understand your stress.

    If its any consolation, watch this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bo5wtVkls4k

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