I was left reeling at the airport last week, panicked in a crumpled shirt and no make-up, having left my passport in a Pret paper bag that was about to be thrown out in the Heathrow Wetherspoons.
I am not a glamorous traveller. I remember my mum in the early 1990s, wearing heels, with manicured nails, peach lipstick and a French plait, whenever she flew. I can’t think of anything more awkward than having blackened eyes when I need to rub them through tears, or glossed lips that are pursed because of the unknown.
There are days when getting from A to B is hard enough, where air conditioning will dry out the best of hopes anyway. Sometimes to be a barefaced, feral cavewoman is all I need. On those days a small pot of classic Nivea will do: a palm-sized, nostalgic pot of reassuring cream. Taking it out of a pocket is like reaching for someone’s hand. I spread it across my face as though it’ll protect me.
I read that Joan Collins swears by it, too. Though I know she travels way more glamorously than I do...
