That Time I Puked in a Tote Bag In the Glasgow Airport Security Line

Dunnae read this while eating your croissant

Hello my friends,

Let’s travel back in time to the month of October.; Fall, Spooky, Britbox Mystery Vibes.

Prior to becoming a vessel for a tiny yet somehow wildly destructive human being, I had confirmed a solo tour in the UK… playing a few shows in some favorite spots including Glasgow and Shetland. When I found out I was pregnant, I thought I might need a little support on my trip. My energy was at Covid-esque levels and I was nauseous all the time. So, I invited my dear friend Dan Abrahams, an Edinburgh musician who is not only a killer guitar player and composer, but a super sweet guy, to join me on tour. LUCKY DAN!!!

I was just about done with the first trimester by the time this tour came around, and I was getting real arrogant about also being done with throwing up. I feel great, I thought. I got this. I’m an international Bitch. Pregnancy can’t stop me. Girl boss, yeahhhhhh.

My flight into Scotland was delayed but I eventually met up with Dan and we had a great rehearsal and a nice first show in Glasgow. Dan had learned all the music and was sounding killer. I have to applaud myself for inviting such a sweet touring companion along. There were not many good choices on this trip, but that was one of them.

The next morning Dan and I had a super early flight to the Shetland Islands, where we were playing two nights of shows. As I chugged some coffee at 3:30 AM and we packed up the car, I thought… hmm I should probably eat something. I was still quite jet lagged so it was hard to tell what time my body thought it was.

All went smoothly, but by the time we arrived at the airport, I was beginning to feel VERY nauseous. I’ll just get through security, I thought, and then I can eat some breakfast. So there Dan and I were standing, in the middle of a big hall, in the middle of a very long, winding, and unmoving security line, holding many instruments and bags when I began to feel that terrible mouth-watering, vision-blurring inevitability…

“I’m feeling a little bit sick”, I said to Dan.

“Oh,” he said, “I’m so sorry!”

I looked around the giant hall. There were people everywhere. I saw no bathrooms.

Now, there is a lovely and talented Scottish author named Mallachy Tallack, whose work I have discussed on this Substack before. At the Glasgow show the evening before, Malachy had very kindly brought me a copy of his new book in a canvas tote bag.

I dropped my banjo and fiddle on the ground, tore through my backpack, and pulled out said tote bag. I rescued the book before plunging my face into the canvas and vomiting into it profusely.

The folks in front and in back of us distanced themselves from me as much as possible. All around, there was pointing and whispering; “She’s being sick! She’s being sick right here in the queue!!!!”

They probably thought I was carrying Avian Flu and was about to infect the whole airport.

Poor Dan. “It’s Okay, It’s Okay”, he said kindly, awkwardly patting my back, throwing death stares at the gossipers around us.

I threw the tote back into a nearby garbage can as the Glasgow Airport Security came running towards me.

"Ma’am, are ye awright?” the first security woman asked, in a wonderful Scottish Brogue.

“I’m fine,” I said, laughing with relief from the nausea. “I’m sorry. I’m not sick, I’m just pregnant”

“OHHHHH” she said, throwing up her hands. “Ye dinnae hae tae explain anything, Whin Ah wis pregnant, Ah wis throuin' up everywher!!!”

Three more security officers showed up. “Whit can we dae for ye?” They asked. “I’m fine,” I said, “really”. They handed me water and put me in a wheelchair, escorted us past the entire line and through VIP security. What a scene.

Dan and I emerged on the other side of security, and couldn’t stop laughing. “When you said you felt sick,” he said, “I didn’t think you meant like, THAT sick.”

“You’re really getting the full experience,” I said. “I’m so sorry, but now we are bonded for life. I think I just need to eat something”

We stopped at the closest cafe and I ordered eggs on toast with avocado. I drank water and chewed gum, texting my husband and sister to tell them about the wild drama I had just caused.

I ate my food with gusto, thinking that hunger was the problem, as it had been, counterintuitively, many times in previous months. But about ten minutes into this breakfast, something felt very very wrong in my stomach. Jesus, I thought.

“Bathroom” I told Dan, leaving all my possessions, and sprinting towards the ladies room on the other side of the hall.

I was moving as fast as I could, but there was no stopping this tidal wave. I made it through the bathroom door, and ran towards a stall. I got the stall door about halfway open before projectile vomiting toast, eggs and avocado all over the floor, toilet and walls of the stall. It just kept on coming. The food barely looked eaten. A full breakfast for everyone!

When the sickness finally abated, I stared at the disgusting scene. I could not leave this for the poor janitorial staff to clean up. It was like a murder. Above and beyond the call of duty. I began mopping up the area with paper towels. A few other women entered the bathroom and then left abruptly. Everytime I thought I had cleaned the area, I found more. The outside door of the stall. The floor on the way to the stall. There were regurgitated eggs on the sink, the mirror. HOW!

By the time I made it back to the breakfast table, we were late for boarding.

Dan looked at me. “Again?” He asked.

“How did you know?” I said, pulling some regurgitated egg out of my hair.

We ran to our tiny, 12 person plane that was going to take us to Shetland. As we boarded I asked the stewardess for some extra bags.

“It’s been a rough morning,” I said.

TO BE CONTINUED