One Christmas, returning from a trip to Florida to visit my parents, I ended up sitting on the plane longer than I’d have liked. My legs tend to hurt when I have to sit still for too long and I was really looking forward to having a chance to stand up. After a while, I did manage to get off the plane (clearly), but of course assumed I would then be forced to muscle my way through the roiling throngs at the baggage claim just to catch a glimpse of luggage belonging to strangers. However, I was mildly pleased to see that I was the first prospector to plumb the mines of Samsonite, and would not have to do battle in the Arena of the Carousel. I was still dejected at the idea of waiting still longer to retrieve my luggage and return to my hovel.

A minute or two later later, the alarm sounded, signalling that the sluices were opening, and, lo, first out of the curtains was a bag that looked suspiciously like mine. It couldn’t be, though. Things like that only happen in fairy tales. As it rounded the bend, though, I saw my initials emblazoned across the side, and my uneasy contentment turned to childlike joy as I seized my bag from the very front of the line. Had I not had a witness with me at the time, I would scarcely have believed it myself.

So anyway, that’s why I jump up and headbutt everyone in front of me as soon as the plane lands now.