Shamed at the airport

Sydney’s hand luggage bleeped as it went through the detector thing, so they searched it.

What do they find? His manicure set!‘You cannot take this in your hand luggage’ says the Customs official.
‘Ok, says Sydney, ‘I’ll put it in my pocket.’
‘No, I mean you can’t take it on the aeroplane.’ Says Mr Customs man.
‘Why not?’
‘Haven’t you read the notices, sir?’ An ominous tone has crept into the official’s voice.

I had to do something. I took the man to one side. ‘Look, I apologise for my son’s behaviour but he’s been ill.’ I tapped my head with my forefinger. ‘The hospital has released him on licence to visit his sister Anna, who is expecting her first child. I am taking full responsibility for him – making sure he takes his medication, and so on. Is there perhaps some way around this?’

The official thought for a moment, then he said ‘Ok, go into W.H. Smith and purchase a Jiffy Bag. Write his sister’s address on it and I will post it.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ I effused.

Taking Sydney’s arm I led him away, explaining what we were to do.
‘Well, I don’t see why I can’t take it with me’ he said, petulantly.
I tightened my grip on his arm. ‘If you don’t button it they’ll lock you up!’ I hissed. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
‘What war?’
‘The war on terror, you berk!’

Anyway we got the Jiffy Bag. But then I realised I didn’t know Anastasia’s address. While I was thinking what to do, our flight was called.
‘Come on – forget your fucking manicure set.’ And I propelled him towards the gate.

Honestly, the lad is so gormless. Can he really be the fruit of my loins?
I’m determined to get that D.N.A. test done.