Wheeled luggage, in its general form, has long been one of my pet hates in the world. I reserve particular wrath for the items that only have two wheels are dragged behind its owner. I suppose, one of the issues is that the majority of it is absolutely hideous. Especially the smaller varieties, ones which only hold a pen and a piece of paper. Also, I suppose I never take that much with me and it’s never heavy, hence my puzzlement at people with heavy luggage. Why just not take as much stuff?
The extra-large size of luggage is also an issue. Whenever I see someone trollying around the kitchen sink in a tanker of a suitcase, especially if they’re on the tube, I think, you haven’t thought about this before hand. If it’s so heavy that it takes three people to lift it, then I think you’ve packed too much. Of course, I seem to have immaculate timing when it comes to stairs and other people’s luggage. Preferably, my evil self would like to ignore them, laughing as they struggle up stairs and I walk by unhindered and care free. However, my better self always seems to win out. Looks like they need help, it says.
Hmm okay, I think.
There’s an art to lifting heavy luggage. At all times remain calm, collected and give off an air of dignity. I’m a fit and healthy go getter. I could lift luggage all day, no sweat. In truth, I’m an embarrassment. On one occasion, I offered to help a seemingly sweet old lady.
“Need help with your bag?” I said.
“That would be splendid,” she replied, in a sweet old lady like way.
It was only 25 steps in total and really it should have been a doddle. After the third attempt at lifting the case, the lady looking at me with pity, “you want me to help you with that?” She said.
“Just stretching,” I replied, doing the hand click thing and rotating my neck. I did a little jump in the air to show her how agile I was.
“Well, I’ll leave you do your stretching and wait at the top of the stairs then.”
She walked up and after the fourth attempt at lifting the suitcase I had to resort to dragging it up the stairs. 5 minutes later, and I had reached the 10th step.
“I got a plane to catch,” she shouted down, looking at her watch.
Roughly 70 people had passed me and not a single one had offered to help. As I continued to drag the case up the stairs making all manner of noises and groans, the lady seemed to turn into my fitness instructor, barking instructions or motivational snippets at me.
“Put your back into it Sonny,” she would shout, and when I looked like I was about to tumble back down the steps, “my five year old grandson could do better than that.”
It seemed to work. Once I reached the top, she patted me on the back and thanked me. It seemed like a pyrrhic victory. As she turned and walked off, the wheelie suitcase elegantly gliding along behind her, I wiped the sweat of my face and wandered to catch my train.
I know I’ll have to buy wheeled luggage at some point in my life and I’ll instantly become an acolyte of this wondrous invention. Until then I’ll just have to settle for its dark side, and continue lifting other people’s luggage up stairs for them.