Ex-pat at the Ready

Like any good boy scout has his dib-dib-dobs ready to sing ging-gang-goolying sing-songs at drop of a dibble or was it a dobble. Visa requirements checked, foreign currency check. So the international traveller has at the ready the toiletry bag sitting firmly near the passport, ready to go adventuring. Pen knife at the ready is placed in hold luggage for fear of being taken as an international terrorist. Luggae chosen from an array of suitable suitcases to suit each overnight, 3 day, week, month excursion like a series of Russian dolls.

Plastic bag of specially sized stuff that can pass customs muster computer readied to be individually beaten to a metaphorical x-rayed pulp.

Coins pushed into the special briefaces pocket, I am executive armed to do business. Blow-up cushion has been bought but not really used because it never really helped the jetlag- resistant sleep.

I am ready to go at the drop of the hat. And did I see my boss drop a hat, I am ready to go sir.

X-ray machine walk of shame completed with apomb, without a beep, without any eyebrow being raised, without a body scan being troubled, without a frisk that is a tad too close to telling which side of the bed you got out of.

Once there in some climate that has been anticipated like a telephoning Superman, an executive metamorphed into the local version, be that tie not used, jacket causally drawn over shoulders like a cape. At home whatever the weather.

Once there Taxi receipts requested in multiple tongues, restaurant receipts checked, cashpoint commission receipts are pushed into pockets, wallets and rescued nightly to be processed eventually by a secretary to avoid cash flow problems. Account checked on the notebook - laptop-computer in the hotel room at an exorbitant 5 star cost to ensure a credit card has not been copied and someone in Australia is buying microwaves at my expense.

I an ex-pat doing my thing.