Crossing the Rubb-icon

The airport security team fell right in to my evil blogging hands when they pulled me out of the line for a pat-down.

In the taxi out to the airport I was idly considering the fact that we could still turn around. Not sure where we’d go, of course. Apart from the lack of house, car and chattels it’d be a bit embarrassing to go back and tell all the people who had farewelled us that we’d changed our minds. The only way we could stay in Sydney would be to hide in a basement for a year.

I didn’t really want to turn around though. I woke up this morning actively excited. All the organizational stuff is finally done. If we’ve forgotten anything, it’ll have to be dealt with as we go. There’s nothing else to worry about on the ‘home’ front and we’re off.

We got through check-in in record time and within five minutes of arriving in the airport were negotiating airport security. The nice security guy asking us whether we had a notebook computer, or iPad, or anything left all four of us in hysterics. I’m sure I heard him mutter something about the Tardis and things being bigger on the inside than the outside, as we pulled one electronic device after another from our bags.

It was either that laughter, or the kilograms of electronics in the bags, that had them choose me for an additional security check. (And for the record, the Australian version of the now-infamous airport security pat-down is nothing like the US versions that have been all over the news recently. I came away thoroughly non-traumatised.)

And then, pat-down passed, then that was it, we’re awaiting our flight. We’re on our way.