I recently flew from France to London with a man clutching an unopened package of sliced ham.

My friend Glan and I had just spent a week at his dad’s vacation house on the Mediterranean. While we were there, Glan decided to abscond with his dad’s amp. This is an enormous and powerful piece of machinery, capable of hooking up and relaying an entire entertainment system. From the look of it, it may have briefly temped for NASA.

It is also waaaay over the weight limit for Ryan Air’s carryon policy.

Glan began the night before by carefully packing this monstrosity in a suitcase. For later purposes, you should know that this suitcase is a color I can only describe as ‘Barbie Red’. It is also made of a hard 1970s style plastic, and could easily serve as a weapon if you ever found yourself under attack by a pack of wild dogs.

For further purposes, you should also know that Glan worries. A lot.

“How much do you think it weighs?” Asked Glan, the night before.

“I have no idea… I can’t think in kilos.”

Glan continued to worry the following morning, completely emptying both of his suitcases and repacking them. Apparently this was supposed to make them weigh less.

“How much do you think it weighs?’

“No idea. Really.”

By the time we’d arrived at the airport, Glan had worked himself into a complete wreck. He was understandably concerned, as Ryan Air charges a fair amount for every kilo over their baggage limit. However, the amp was worth so much new that I figured anything he paid to get it home was well worth it.

Glan decided I could probably get it checked for free. This was not an idle thought, as I’d gotten our luggage checked free on the way there. So he decided that I could help on the way home as well.

“How much do you think it weighs?”

“No idea. Kilos.”

Understandably, by the time we actually reached the front of the line, I’d reached my limit with all things amp-related. I had, in fact, developed an active hatred of all electronic equipment weighing over twenty pounds, red plastic suitcases, and sliced ham.

And that’s the other thing about my dear friend. He’s a compulsive hoarder. He is physically incapable of throwing anything away.

Anything. Really.

When I went to London for a visit, he met me at the door with a proud smile and a plastic bag full of rotting food.

“Look what happened!” He exclaimed, proudly thrusting the bag under my nose. His firstborn will no doubt be met with the same sense of wonder.

Which is why, on our way out the door to the airport, Glan packed up the entire contents of the fridge into a plastic bag. When I mentioned the six-hour, non-refrigerated journey, he reasonably suggested that we eat it for lunch. Along with the two hard boiled eggs, leftover salad, olives, jam, half pound of butter, raw pasta, and random pastries. Weight limits be damned.

So back to the check in line.

“How much do you think it weighs?”

It was at this point that my eyelid tick, which usually only occurs during finals week, started up.

*1972 and on. They’re in binders.

** That’s pounds as in British currency. Smartass.

*** In pieces

**** Again

***** Luckily for us, they don’t cover Unrefrigerated Meat Transport in the mandatory flight attendant class for terrorist spotting.

****** And give me a Double Tall Cavity Search. No Whip.