Here Is The Story Of Jetstar Sucking

I have been back in Australia less than 24 hours and have somehow already summoned the Federal Police.

This morning I got up at 6:30am, put on my new silver shorts, white tee, island shells… Packed my leather backpack full of silk clothes and a stack of brochures for The Beachouse.

Today. Byron Bay. Gypsy Wedding. Friends and Sunshine. But first. The Sydney Domestic Airport.

I have recently made a vow to myself to begin taking care of my skin. Organic make-up. Tinted Sunscreen. All those lovely things that with age and smile lines, have gone from being “I’ll just steal some of mum’s” to a “$300 every 6 months” necessity.

Needless to say a lot of these products are not available in Toorak, Suva City. (Unless I missed them somewhere behind the knock-off watches, Indian dress up earrings and fairy lights… All of which are also necessities).

So this morning I decided to take advantage of the quiet airport shops and acquired all the things on my shopping list within half an hour. Basically… I dropped some cold hard cash in that baby. I be ballin.

I got to the Jetstar terminal with my backpack and newly acquired plastic bag. I was greeted by a female eye-roller of the first order and a man who would make a frying pan jealous of the copious oil slathered through his luscious locks.

They wanted to weigh my carry-on bags. I was 1.9kg over the 7kg mark. I explained that I had just bought some things in the terminal.

No dice.

I pulled out the wad of Beachouse brochures and low and behold I was now only 0.5 overweight. No dice.

I pulled out my denim jacket and threw a gold sequinned singlet over my tee-shirt. I now looked adequately like a crazy hippy clown. I didn’t mind. I told them I would just carry the brochures on board, no harm no foul no problem. I was underweight. But. No dice.

“If you carry your brochures, that’s an extra ‘piece’ ma’am.”

I’ll give you an extra piece ma’am. (Internal thought)

“You will have to discard them or pay $50AUD to have them checked in on board.”

I started formulating a plan of hiding every single brochure in an around the nooks and crannys of the Airport. I was just about to walk off and begin my guerrilla advertising mission when a lovely lady piped up.

“I’ll take them for you.”

Mr and Mrs Jetstar were far from impressed. They came rushing out from behind their power desk and spat a monologue of warnings and legalities and at one time even suggested I had hid a flick knife within my stack of cardboard. They obviously hadn’t yet seen my tattoo and realised words are my weapon and I don’t even own a cooking knife. Regardless, my new friend did not flinch.

“I think I’ll take my chances.”

“We will have to call the Federal Police.”

At this I began to laugh.

“Are you serious??”

My new friend chimed in.

“Call them.”

I hesitated for a moment, but then thought “Okay let’s see how this plays out.”

So as it all happened I am on the plane. I even have my phone on flight mode right now. What an angel. No federal prison for me today. I have my brochures back. My new friend stuck to her guns and maintained she was responsible for them for the duration of the flight. She was of course delighted when she discovered there were no actual guns or any other form of artillery hidden within them. Turns out my knight in shining pink dress is from Tasmania and just came back from Fiji. Just a few more things to bond us in our newly formed rebel club.

I don’t hold Jetstar personally responsible. They have their rules. Good on them. Australia loves a good rule. I do hold them in slighter lower esteem though.

If you are going to ask your employees to apply mountains of make-up everyday to maintain a professional image, perhaps look into some products that may reduce the outrageous level of resting-bitch-face? Just an idea. Perhaps go to that giant make-up shop in your airport? Ask for Andie. She helped me immensely this morning. That was just before your staff tried to take everything she sold me, off me… and get me arrested for receiving a display of humanity from a fellow traveller.




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