Have you ever tried pulling on a pair of Spanx when your thighs are still dampy?
The upshot is your end up with the thing firmly stuck between your saddlebag and your mid-rift - like a breakfast sausage someone gave up stuffing.
That bewildered feeling as you shuffle around the bedroom (most men will just have to trust me on this) is exactly what the stifling mountain of worldwide travel restrictions are inflicting on us, Pumpkins.
Working out which country has what rules coming and going and whether a COVID test is required on landing, takeoff or mid-Atlantic, what kind of test and what citizenship it’s applicable to is enough to blow anybody’s hard drive. (And not in a good way.) This is assuming there even is a flight to wherever your client is going, never mind if they need a visa or other inoculations.
And it’s only getting worse, Pumpkins. I now need to make sure they have some kind of vax passport, but nobody knows what, where, how - whether it’s a worldwide sanctioned IATA one or the issuing country’s — while the anti-vaxers picket your agency elbowing their way ahead of the folks still screaming about their refunds.
I didn’t sign up to police my fellow Canadians, Pumpkins. And I’m not medically trained. We used to send people on dreams not nightmares, dahrlings.
If you get the impression I’m a little upset, it’s because ... well, I am. Usually after five of Gianni’s martinis I can manage to meditate a bit.
But watching the feds with their heads in a vice (not unlike said Spanx, only in this case spanks come to mind), without a clue about the industry while we pay the price is not the fun part.
