Another trip to Glasgow, another experience with the wonderful SAS (Stornoway Airport Security) and another wander through the massive shopping complex they call Glasgow Airport.
Before I left I had to scour airport websites to see if I could take my new disposable razor with me. Sadly I had to leave my hatchet and crowbar behind but it looked like my razor would go safely through along with a small pair of scissors.
Apparently 6cm scissors and knives are considered safe enough to carry on to a plane which worries me slightly as I now have a fear of being attacked by a mad woman with a pair of nail scissors whilst eating my complimentary Tunnocks.
But first I had to get on the plane which is not easy at Stornoway airport as the departure security is painstakingly slow and so annoying that it would make a nun curse.
I am now absolutely convinced that they should be more afraid of passengers than any terrorist threat.
The length of time you have to wait whilst balancing a tray full of bags, shoes, belts and mobile devices is bordering on torture. This time I was only prepared to wait a few more minutes before I let my beltless trousers fall down round my ankles and waddle through the security scanner in my underwear.
I eventually handed my tray for inspection only to be told that I had mixed up my liquids with my razors.
The sighs from the queue behind were clearly audible as I tipped everything out and started again. What was the point in this as the bag was see-through? If they keep this up, instead of ISIS I think I will form ISOS (Islanders Sick of Security).
Coming back is just as frustrating. Glasgow airport is devilishly difficult to get to no matter what transport you use as you are at the mercy of the M8 traffic which grinds to a halt at Braehead especially when you are heading for the late plane. Inside Glasgow airport the planes seem almost incidental as the main objective is to get you to part with as much money as possible before you head home.
Security is fairly brisk but once you pass through you have to meander around the myriad of outlets where over-eager assistants jump on you to sell their wares.
I don’t see any difference between these people and those who beg on the streets other than I would happily help those in need but would never dream of giving any of my hard earned cash to buy a Toblerone the size of a baseball bat or a vat of perfume.
I just want to fly home!