I stood among the milling herd which waited, like cows outside a milking shed, beside the airport's baggage carousel.
For 10 minutes we stared despondently, watching a solitary unclaimed bag from another flight circle us aimlessly and endlessly.
Subtly, we jostled for position. A large lady in plum trackies insinuated herself in front of me from the left, all the time gazing innocently into the distance.
''That's right boy, get a good spot,'' a granddad muttered as a kid on the right slipped past my knees.
The lonely suitcase finished another lap and scraped through the hanging rubber flaps under which the belt disappears. This orifice looks alarmingly like the void in the crematorium chapel down which the coffin slides, taking another person to eternity.
I read that each year 25 million bags fail to make it out through the baggage maw to their loved ones. So where do they all end up?
Are the rings around the planet Saturn in fact lost items of baggage which circle infinitely, or are they merely the socks that vanish inside clothes driers?I think the herd was also pondering what lies beyond.
At any rate we waited resentfully, staring at the hole in the wall from which the empty belt slid, waiting for a sign. Occasionally there were sounds of distant activity on the other side - but what?
Were the baggage handlers playing table tennis, or had they sat down to tea and cucumber sandwiches? Pillaging the luggage, or re-routing it to Rarotonga?We have a lot of time for dull and surly thoughts, when being processed through airports.
While enduring the pre-boarding security checks, PC types who score 10 out of 10 for religious tolerance find themselves thinking very incorrect thoughts about mad mullahs and their brethren.
I think about easier air travel in the past, and a flight I took into Azerbaijan, where the passengers' most common hand baggage was chooks. What price freedom, I ask, when a chap can no longer travel accompanied by his Red Orpington?
To be fair, America, the Land of the Paranoid, has airlines which allow passengers to carry small caged birds, pups and hamsters on their laps. But when my collaborator, the Duchess, travels in New Zealand, she is forced to make her Jack Russell ride in the hold.
''I'm sure I could hear Minty barking down below,'' she said, when I picked her up at the airport recently.
''Yeah, right,'' I thought. No dog, not even Minty, barks louder than a jet plane.
The Duchess retrieved Minty from the Dog Minder desk, put her on a lead, and as she left, was accosted by another passenger.
''Your dog was on the flight?''''Yes.''
''Well there was no peace up front. We could hear her barking all the bloody way.''
Minty is too vociferous to end up as lost baggage. We've all had bags go missing at some time, and fear the routine that follows should we actually find the person responsible for locating it.
''Have you reached your destination?'' the official asks, commencing the paperwork.
''Well, I'm standing here, aren't I?''No need to be rude. In airports I can have you arrested. Now please describe your bag.''
''It's made of red and gold and striped vinyl, and carries a very large picture of Elvis.''
''Very good. Tell me, does it have any distinguishing characteristics?''
But the doings in the baggage hall are not a total tale of woe. I have a local friend who lost her son when she took her eyes off him while watching the carousel.
He simply vanished into the airport's chaos. Nowhere to be seen. Amid a great hue and cry the lost child officials were summonsed.
Then, just as the search began in earnest, another bag bumped out of the hole and into the light. Astride it, beaming, sat the boy. The little blighter had travelled to the other side.
Footnote: I sometimes write down midnight brainwaves. Scanning my thoughts on airport carousels, I came across an insight I still can't figure.
''Replace the dead dog.''
Can anyone help?
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
